A Morning of Blood Tests and Forgetfulness

Today was one of those mornings that just didn’t go to plan. I had to go for blood tests, which in itself isn’t a big deal, but the logistics have become frustrating. We can no longer just pop to the GP five minutes away or even the hospital nearby. Instead, we have to trek to the other side of town—a 15- to 20-minute drive each way.

That would have been fine, except that, like an absolute berk, I completely forgot my blood form. The moment we pulled up outside the clinic, my stomach sank. I felt sick and angry at myself, especially knowing how much of an inconvenience I’d caused my husband. He had to rearrange his work schedule to drive me, as I can’t drive at the moment—stronger medication has turned me into a bit of a zombie (though at least the pain in my face has eased).

Cue a frantic dash home, this time with my husband channeling The Stig behind the wheel. By the time we got back, I was 15 minutes late, flustered, and fully expecting to be turned away.

Thankfully, the phlebotomist was an absolute gem. She was warm, chatty, and accepted my apology without hesitation. After a morning of stress, her kindness was exactly what I needed.

Lesson learned: next time, double-check the paperwork before leaving the house!

 

 

One Symptom at a Time? I’m Not a Checklist.

I went to the doctors last week  — exhausted, overwhelmed, and carrying a long list of symptoms that have been making everyday life harder than it should be.

But apparently, I was only allowed to talk about one of them.

Just one. As if my body can be split into neat little boxes. As if all these symptoms couldn’t possibly be connected. As if I didn’t spend days working up the energy to finally ask for help.

So I chose one symptom — the one I thought might be taken seriously — and that became the focus. I was prescribed a new medication… from the same class as something I already take. I asked, “Is that even safe?” He said yes, quickly, like it was nothing.

I asked, “What about the other symptoms?”

His response: “Let’s just deal with one thing at a time.”

 

But I’m not a list to be ticked off in pieces. I’m a whole person. And when your symptoms might be connected, treating just one thing isn’t progress — it’s a delay.

Frustrated and honestly close to tears, I walked straight back to reception and asked for another appointment — this time with someone else. After a bit of a wait and some persistence, I managed to get a slot with a different GP that afternoon.

And thank god I did.

That second doctor didn’t blink when I said I wasn’t happy about the first appointment. I told her I wasn’t sure the new medication was right — and she agreed. She said it wasn’t appropriate. She increased my usual medication instead, and more importantly, she took immediate action: an urgent scan, urgent blood tests, and a proper plan to start getting answers.

All of this could’ve been missed. Brushed off. Delayed — again.

It shouldn’t take two appointments and a fight just to be taken seriously. But here we are.

If you’re struggling, keep pushing. Ask for someone else. Don’t let anyone make you feel like your health has to be divided into bite-sized, manageable pieces for their convenience.

You deserve better. We all do.

“When the Circus Took a Day Off: A Surprisingly Smooth Journey from Cardiff to Wellington” (Yes, Really. No, I’m Not Joking.)

It’s not often I am able to write my tale about travel without a side of chaos, a dash of disaster, and a generous sprinkle of accessibility rage—but here we are. Brace yourself: this one’s a story of things going… right.

I know. I was shocked too.

The journey began at Cardiff Central, where—for once—the stars aligned. The accessible entrance was open, the lifts were functioning (I checked twice, just in case I was hallucinating), and the staff were helpful, friendly, and refreshingly unfazed.

Boarding was simple. No logistical gymnastics, no last-minute dramas. . Honestly, it felt mildly suspicious.

The train rolled toward Shrewsbury, and I found myself nervously eyeing the time. A seven-minute connection lay ahead—usually the kind of tight change that sets off a full internal monologue of doom. But this time?

It was fine.

Really fine.

The connecting train was already waiting when I arrived and it was on the opposite yet adjoining platform. I transferred trains with time to spare. No stress. No sprinting. No chaos. Just a straightforward, seamless change that felt so rare it almost needed commemorative bunting.

The second leg of the journey was just as smooth. And yes, in case you’re wondering: my Disabled Railcard was now actually in date. A true plot twist.

But here’s the cherry on top: when I arrived at Wellington, my husband was able to park on the same side of the station where my train arrived. No lift needed, no grand tour through town dodging potholes and pigeons, no epic trek to retrieve the car from the opposite platform. Just a simple, straightforward pick-up. I could’ve cried from the sheer convenience of it all.

Smooth journey. Minimal effort. No logistical circus.

It shouldn’t feel remarkable, but it does. And while Wellington’s station still hasn’t caught up with the 21st century in terms of accessibility, today, at least, it didn’t get in the way.

So here’s to a rare, glorious moment when public transport behaved itself. May it happen again—ideally before the next leap year.

Paula’s Travelling Circus: taking a rare intermission—but we all know the clowns will be back soon.

Of course, even the best-case scenario still comes with a price when you’re living with chronic illness.

The trains were on time, the staff were lovely, everything went as it should—and yet here I am, back home, completely wiped out. Body crashing, energy drained, every muscle aching like I’ve run a marathon (spoiler: I have not).

I’m back in bed, where I’ll probably be for the next few days, doing the all-too-familiar recovery dance: rest, pain management, more rest, and the slow shuffle back to baseline.

This is the part of travel no one sees. The part that doesn’t get mentioned in glossy rail brochures or cheerful accessibility reports. Even when everything goes right, chronic illness still takes its toll.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be buried under the duvet and pretending I don’t have a suitcase to unpack.

 

 

#livingwithchronicillness

#fibromyalgia

#fibromyalgiaawareness

#AccessibleTravel

#DisabledAdventures

#SmoothRideMiracle

#RailwayRedemption

#CardiffToWellington

#PaulasTravellingCircusTakesABreak

Delayed Trains, Denied Coffee & Disabled Drama: Just Another Day in Paradise

Paula’s travelling circus 

“The Early Bird Cafe… That Opens at Lunchtime (Because Apparently Birds Sleep In Now)”

Another glorious day in the life of Paula’s Travelling Circus—starring one lone disabled woman, a mobility scooter, a frosty train station, and a café with a chronic case of misbranding.

So there I was, standing (well, mostly shivering and hunched like a frozen puffin) at Wellington Train Station, full of hope and delusion. My train was delayed—of course—because what is public transport without a sprinkle of chaos? I figured I’d seek refuge in the one place that promised warmth and caffeine: The Early Bird Cafe.

Ah yes, The Early Bird Cafe—a name that evokes cheery visions of sunrise breakfasts, steaming mugs of tea, and pastries fresh from the oven.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t open until 11.30am.

Eleven. Thirty.

In the morning, technically—but only just. By the time that café unlocks its doors, most early birds have already had lunch and applied for retirement.

Meanwhile, I’m frozen solid, my walking stick is now an icicle, and the vending machine is offering me three types of regret-flavored crisps. The croissants behind the shutter are mocking me. I’m pretty sure one just flipped me the finger.

But let’s rewind a little—because even getting to this train station is like auditioning for a low-budget adventure film.

You see, there’s no lift between the platforms at #WellingtonTrainStation. Nope. Not even a sniff of accessibility. So if I dare to park my car, I’m faced with two joyful options:

1. Park, then scoot through town like a one-woman parade just to reach the other side of the platform—day or night, rain or shine, uphill, downhill, dodging pigeons and potholes.

2. Or—my personal favorite—travel, return home, then go back into town again just to retrieve the car from the opposite platform. Because what disabled person doesn’t love an extra chore after a long journey?

It’s not just inconvenient—it’s unsafe, especially for a lone disabled woman. Today I tried to beat the system and got a lift in, thinking I’d finally outsmarted the chaos. But guess what?

The road to the station is closed. Because of course it is.

And even better—thanks to some delightful roadworks—there are no dropped curbs. You heard me. None. Not a single ramp or slope for wheelchair or mobility scooter users. Just lovely high curbs, like mini Mount Everests dotted around town, daring us to try our luck.

So here I am: stranded, frozen, uncaffeinated, and once again wondering whether I’ve accidentally signed up for some twisted endurance reality show called “Disabled Woman Attempts Public Transport in the UK.”

 

Wellington—you have many charms, but accessible travel is not one of them. Between the station infrastructure, road closures, and the sheer audacity of a café named The Early Bird that opens closer to lunchtime, it’s a logistical circus.

And me? I’m the ringmaster.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk. I’d offer you a coffee, but—you guessed it—the café’s still closed.

Accessibility: 0/10. Public transport: still a circus.

BUT—there is hope.

At Shrewsbury Station, despite more delays (naturally), Starbucks saved my soul with a white hot chocolate and an almond croissant.

AND they wrote “Nice Scarf” on my cup.

A little kindness, a little sugar, and suddenly the day didn’t feel quite so grim.

So shout out to the barista who restored my faith in humanity (and my circulation).

But wait—it gets better.

On the second train, the guard checked my ticket…

and that’s when I realised…

 

my Disabled Railcard expired in SEPTEMBER.

Yes. SEPTEMBER.

Cue the world’s most awkward smile and frantic phone-fumbling to buy a new one before I got the “Excuse me, madam” look of doom.

Embarrassing? Yes.

On brand for me? Also yes. 

The train from Shrewsbury to Cardiff is clean, spacious, and surprisingly lovely.

The train guard? Attentive and friendly—regularly walking through to ask passengers if we’d like drinks. Not just for me—for everyone.

A small thing, but it makes a huge difference.

From chaos to kindness, cold toes to croissant salvation—it’s all part of the circus.