Disabled Facilities Grants: this way madness lies

The irony of having written a post just this week about getting out of the house more as a family has not escaped me as I sit here in my house on a rainy Friday, with a broken lift outside in the garden.

As many of you will know, we had lifts fitted in our garden in February 2014, funded by a Disabled Facilities Grant and facilitated by Cornwall Council, to enable us to get in and out of the house with Orange in his wheelchair.

The construction works were fraught with difficulty, in the hands of wide boy contractors and a council adaptations team that didn’t know what they were doing, or were off sick or on leave throughout the project.

As a result we were left with lifts that never worked reliably from week one, and a garden completely obliterated by builders who decided to work to their very own unique concrete obstacle course design.

For the past three years, we have complained and negotiated with the council to rectify these problems. To provide us with lifts that work, and to rectify the dumpster fire that is our garden.

I wrote about it in this post from August 2015, when our lift dangled open dangerously leaving a two metre drop for one of us to fall in. This made front page news locally and finally kicked the council into action to think about rectifying the issues.

Being diplomatic, it has been a learning exercise for the council. For 18 months.

At times, we have even felt listened to by the council, and that we had made progress together, and helped them to improve their processes for managing Disabled Facilities Grants.

Today, three years since the first ill-fated works were done, we were due to have our kick off meeting with the council adaptations project manager and their engineer and the new contractors to discuss the new works.

I had hoped this evening to write a really positive and happy post, celebrating that we had a start date for new works to begin, and that we had got through this difficult process with the right outcomes, that the council had listened and learned from their mistakes and this would help not only us but other families needing adaptations works in the future.

Unfortunately I cannot. Because the council have let us down again by deciding not to show up to our kick off meeting. They cancelled it fifteen minutes after they were due to arrive. Apparently because they could not drive to us in the rain, down roads that both we and the double decker bus and countless other vehicles had no problems with this morning.

Instead, I have spent the last two hours writing a complaint to the Local Government Ombudsman and calling a lawyer, as well as negotiating with the council yet again to send an engineer to fix the broken lift outside.

If I were to count up the hours, days and weeks my husband and I have spent trying to resolve the issues related to our home adaptations, the countless lengthy meetings, emails, phone calls, coaching the council through their own management of the contracting firms they hire, or how to dial in to a conference call (I kid you not), and negotiating with them to fix the mess they have caused, I have no doubt at all of the significance.

And yet this issue is not unique. Up and down the country there are families dealing with the same issues. Funding applications that are declined, council adaptations teams giving bad advice on where equipment and adaptations should be fitted, work being undertaken poorly so it has to be redone, families with broken lifts who can’t get in or out of their own homes.

It’s an issue that the Local Government Ombudsman has investigated repeatedly in the past and need to do again. It needs a national spotlight on what is a systemic and endemic problem affecting families all over the country.

Disabled Facilities Grants should be a good thing. To enable families to do basic things like get in and out of their homes, move around and bathe, eat and sleep safely. And yet it isn’t. Often it’s a disaster.

I will be writing to Penny Mordaunt MP, the Minister for Disabled People who I met last week at Westminster. I will also be writing to the Womens & Equalities Committee who have disabled adaptions on their radar and were discussed just this week.

If you have had an issue with Disabled Facilities Grant adaptations, please do the same or feel free to share your story here if you would rather stay anonymous. Equally if you have positive adaptations stories to share please do so we can shine a light on good practice!

Project ‘Get out of the house 2017’ #wheelygood

You know those grey February days when you think it should be spring but it just isn’t quite yet? When the deliciousness of summer beach picnics and lounging about in the park has faded just a bit too far round the memory corner and your feet have forgotten what it means to be flip-flop ready?

So, for me, that’s today in a nutshell. Sat under a blanket for the third day running in the inhospitable company of a vile and flu-like thing, I’m going more than a little four-wall-crazy. And when daytime TV becomes intolerable the internet is my friend between naps, nose blows and making irritating requests for water and ‘something spicy and scratchy’ to eat.

So I’m planning some family days out.

This year we promised ourselves we would do better at getting out and about to explore the beautiful part of the country we live in. Nestled in south east Cornwall, we have all of not just Cornwall but also Devon right here on our doorsteps but we have fallen into routines and habits that mean we often visit the same places. Partly because we like them but also because for us they are ‘safe’ options.

We know that the Eden Project has a Changing Places loo with a bench and a hoist so we can change Orange and that the whole place is a wheelchair accessible, sensory paradise where we can always get something delicious, allergy free and mashable for Orange to eat. It’s an easy, enjoyable and inspiring day out for all of us.

And the wine is good. So it’s always a win.

Out late and totally winning at life at the Eden Project

We know that we can get an all-terrain wheelchair onto any of the beaches in St Ives, and that the food options there are top notch but that the disabled parking only lasts three hours and the alternative, the train in and out from Lelant, isn’t wheelchair accessible.

We know we can easily get a wheelchair round the National Maritime Museum in Falmouth then go across the (flat) square and eat lobster at Rick Stein, or visit the National Marine Aquarium in Plymouth and dine like kings at Rockfish afterwards but, while all of these venues have plenty of room to install one, there is no Changing Places loo at, or even near, any of them.

It’s a car boot job or filthy floor of the ‘disabled loo’ (is that mud or poo, water or wee I’m kneeling in today?) to change the boy, risking basic hygiene, spines and dignity as we go.

We know that any beach with a slipway is our friend for a sunny day out with a picnic, and some beautiful wheelchair friendly walks can be found on the moors to either side of us but the same changing challenges abound.

Wet through, attempting a change on the back seat of the car in a public car park

Sometimes, the sheer planning of a day out with Orange means we don’t do it at all. Because family life can be pretty exhausting as it is, and honestly it’s often too much of a bore to try to figure out if a new place we have never been before, a new walk, attraction or picnic spot might be accessible enough for us.

Strangely, access statements don’t seem to contain the information you need if you are going out and about with a disabled child who is 100% reliant on a wheelchair.

We’ve had some pretty dire experiences on days out where the accessibility has not just been an afterthought but where there has been no thought at all.

It was on a ‘challenging’ family day out to Cotehele, a local National Trust property, just before Christmas when I figured that since over half a million tourists visit the south west every summer and 2% of those are likely to be wheelchair users, that’s over 10,000 people a year who  are being poorly catered for.

10,000 people a year. Most of whom are probably here on holiday with their families, because wheelchair users don’t travel alone any more frequently than ambulant folk do.

So that’s actually 30,000-40,000 people a year visiting Devon or Cornwall who need better disability provision, and clear information about that provision, so they can enjoy a family day out.

Even with the distinct advantage of living in the region and knowing where to look, planning a family day out and being confident we will have everything Orange needs is a military exercise.

Just last week, I was planning a walk on Dartmoor and had to visit six or seven different websites just to find an accessible walk, nearby accessible parking, whether there was a Changing Places loo (there wasn’t), and whether there was an accessible child-friendly pub/restaurant/cafe anywhere within wheelchair striking distance that would serve something Orange could eat and that we would all enjoy. That wasn’t booked three weeks in advance.

I’m ashamed to say, I gave up. We stayed at home.

We can’t keep doing that, though. Because venues and owners of public facilities simply won’t be persuaded to install accessible facilities if they don’t see the need. And they won’t see the need if we all stay at home.

I know the National Trust staff had never even thought about the negative impact of keeping their accessible entrance and exit at Cotehele under padlock and key (that you had to go into an inaccessible building and join a queue to request to be unlocked) before we pointed out to them how exclusionary that was.

Guess where reception is? Up some steps, ta da!

I filmed it and everything, because I had total National Trust hives by then and really needed to leave… 

Trying to leave Cotehele in a wheelchair

But fresh in anger we made a promise to ourselves. That we would go out and about with Orange in his wheelchair in a much more intrepid way than we have. Because we need to get out and about for our health and wellbeing. It’s a fundamental need, as well as a nice thing to do.

I also made a promise that I would use this blog to start to build a useful resource for people who might be planning a holiday or a visit to Devon or Cornwall and who are finding it hard, like we do, to find places to go on wheels. With information that’s more user friendly than a tick box access statement. A little mini guide to getting out and about as a family with a wheelchair user in the south west.

It will start small but, since we’re never, ever moving house again (not just because we love it here but also because disabled adaptations will see to it that we can’t, but that’s another tale), I figured that over the years it might build into something really handy for people.

Having sunk to a new flu-based low of watching Parliament Live for two days now, this morning I stumbled across the #disabilityinquiry in which Changing Places loos were a hot topic.

It reminded me of our promise to get out and about with Orange, to go to new places and to start to build a place online where families can find genuinely useful accessibility info about our beautiful part of the country.

So I suppose this is the distinctly low key launch of what I am going to call #wheelygood. Or not. Watch this space for our first trip out, once this flu-vile thing-bug interloper buggers off.

Orange This Way will be taking part in Disabled Access Day, 10th-12th March 2017

 

Neither beginning nor ending be…and other lessons.

The conversation went something like this:

“2016. What a shitter hey. You know I’m really looking forward to the new year just to see the back of this one.”

“You can’t blame the year for all the shitty things that have happened.”

“No, no you can’t. But as humans we like to compartmentalise and sometimes it is healthy and natural to want to draw a line in the sand.” 

“I just got sick of hearing ‘it’s because it’s 2016’ when something bad happened. It’s stupid to blame the year and it devalues the actual thing that has happened.”

“I’ll just be relieved when this one’s over, that’s all.”

And so 2017 has begun and the world has heaved a collective sigh of relief. Hasn’t it? Haven’t you?

No?

The start of a new year often brings with it the anticipation and excitement of new beginnings and possibilities and the closure (satisfying or otherwise) of a chapter complete. Some sense of change or of progress. Of time being on our side again.

And yet this time feels different.

I see people all around me who have begun 2017 not with fresh-faced wide-eyed optimism or gung-ho determination but instead with a cautious hope and gentle stoicism.

Perhaps this is just what happens when you are nearing 40 and life experience has brought with it a few more knocks along with the years?

Perhaps it’s what happens when we see humans all around us causing destruction or making decisions we think are dangerous or stupid?

Perhaps it’s what happens when a generation of baby-boomers’ kids, for many of whom there was always something bigger or better each year as globalisation took off and economies, property and job markets boomed, have now grown up and realised that there isn’t so much, anymore? That those bigger, better life experiences, dreams, houses and things are harder and harder to reach for more and more people?

Perhaps we’re at a collective societal turning point, or perhaps I’m on my own here but for the first time ever I didn’t feel that new year sparkle. That fresh wave of excitement that anything is possible and that it’s going to be a good year, this 2017!

My year.

Your year.

Our year.

Because you can’t guarantee a good one any more that you can predict a bad one.

Nothing in life is certain, after all. Orange has taught me that. He has taught me that the unexpected can happen to anyone. He has also taught me that some of the very things I thought I would be most frightened of in life, I’m very capable of dealing with. That some of the things I thought were scary aren’t scary at all and that even in proper white knuckle, heart-pumping life and death moments I can still rely on myself to do the right thing at the right time.

Orange has taught me to never assume and to always have hope. To feel the fear and do it anyway (with the exception of roller coasters and zip wires, that is).

So why, as I sat on the sofa in a post-Christmas cheese fug could I not feel that fresh-start excitement, that ‘clean pages of a book waiting to be written’ feeling I’ve always felt at this time of year?

As I sat and pondered, my mind freed up by two weeks off work and a body surrendered to the sofa through sheer weight of Toblerone and Stilton alone, I realised what I was looking for was something else entirely.

On the wall next to me was a photograph. One of those enormous canvasses that was so fashionable circa 2010-2012. A black and white image of a family, our family, sitting among the wild grass and sand dunes above Gwithian Sands in west Cornwall.

Not a particularly flattering photograph of any of us, my inner critic would say. Two slightly flabby, tired parents wearing absolutely terrible rain coats (spot the Londoners who had to make emergency practical outdoor wear purchases on holiday), a grumpy, chilly toddler and a six month old squished tight into a baby carrier he’d much rather not have been in, thank you very much.

We’ve certainly had our more photogenic moments.

But there is a story behind this photograph that explains why it deserves its place on our wall and in this post.

It was 2011. It had been ‘our 2016’ before we knew what a 2016 was.

For us it was the year that we felt all the fear but hadn’t yet learned that we could do it anyway. In love with our newborn son but so deeply afraid of what was happening to him, or not happening, and why. To what it would mean for us, as a family, and our lives that we had built.

It was the year we knew we would run out of money if we carried on as we were, as Orange’s appointments meant work was an impossibility and, at that moment, for the first time ever we didn’t know how we could earn any more.

It was also the year that our home was broken into and tens of thousands of pounds worth of our belongings were stolen. My left hand, in the photo, without its sparkle. Sold, probably for drugs. Our home, still ours but somehow not.

Emotionally brittle from hospital appointments and tests that left us more fearful not less, bruised from the bully-boy interviewing of an insurance loss-adjuster who clearly thought we were frauds, and apprehensive of a house sale that would save us from bankruptcy, our lives as they had started at the beginning of 2011 were unrecognisable. Uncertain and with no real plan ahead.

And yet we had hope. Hope for the future, whatever it might bring. Hope, not in abundance but  in adversity.

At this moment, there was no clean slate. Just a multitude of unknowns. We didn’t know where we would live, how we would live, or even how many of us there might be in that future ahead.

But there was hope.

And when I look back at that photo now I know I could tell that younger, fearful and fragile version of me that we were right to have that hope. Without it, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this now in our house by the sea in the place that we love.

So as the first week of the new year cranks up its gears, not a whole lot differently from the last, and the uncertainties ahead are personal, professional and global all at once, for a great many of us, all I can say is to hold on to that hope.

Even when you are flying by the seat of your pants or baby stepping one foot in front of the other to survive.

Even when self-belief and circumstance fail to show up on your side.

Here’s to a hopeful, healthful and fulfilling 2017.

With love,

K xx

The hare, the tortoise and the mountain. A true story.

I should have heeded the warnings. Listened to my mind when it was racing at 3am for the hundredth night in a row.  Listened to my body when it creaked with exhaustion getting out of bed at 6am to start another day. Listened to my heart when it beat hard and fast as I rushed from one place to another wondering what I had forgotten this time. Listened to my voice when I snapped at my little girl for taking too long to brush her teeth in the morning.

But I didn’t. Because I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to feel it. And I didn’t want it to be real.

Because as women we are supposed to be able to do everything, right?

I wanted to prove that I could. That against the odds I could still be a high achiever with a fulfilling career, hobbies I enjoy, a comfortable home and a happy family life. I wanted to prove that I could do all that while also caring and advocating for my disabled child and others like him as well as ‘living the dream’ a la Coast Magazine by the sea and holding the fort in one piece while my husband works away.

That I could take in my stride juggling school runs and homework and changing and feeding and administering meds and chasing appointments and test results and worrying and worrying over whether the latest chest infection or seizure would see us hospital bound again, while maintaining a professional and super productive work life in my job that I love.

And keeping house. And remembering to fill in the ticket requests for the school play on time, ballet and PE and swim kits and guitar sent in on the right day and party invitations RSVP’d.

A race against time every morning to get us all up and out the door, clean, dressed and fed. Coffee. To school on time. Traffic. To work. Coffee. Try to be professional and brilliant. Supercharge every minute with mindblowing feats of productivity. Squeeze more out of every day than should be possible.

But now it’s 5pm and it’s nowhere near all done.

Traffic. Traffic. School pick up just in time. Petrol pit stop and spelling practice in the car.

Home.

Children fed. Pyjamas on. Meds given. A quick smile and a cuddle. School bags emptied and filled. Post opened. Outfits ironed. Cats fed. Meals planned and bought online. Bins emptied. Piece of dry toast and some chocolate eaten for dinner. Feel my back twinge while I carry a growing boy up to bed.

“How many more times can I do this?”

Sitting in a dark bedroom every night while my anxious seven year old finds every reason not to let me leave or to go to sleep. She fights it. In the end, she sleeps. I creep out. Quick tidy up. Dishwasher loaded, floor swept, counters wiped, dryer emptied, laundry folded. Letters from the hospital read and filed. Emails to the adaptations manager, the social worker, school, a campaign group or two.

Work emails caught up on. A work project finished off in the quiet that only an evening alone on the sofa can bring.

“How many more times can I do this?”

Tweets tweeted. Sometimes about gin and sunsets. Usually about loos.

Worry about how we will ever go out as a family when we can’t change Orange in the boot of the car anymore and there are fewer bench and hoist toilets in the whole of the UK than there are normal loos in Wembley Stadium alone.

Realise I can’t fix that overnight and instead end up reading an article about terrible care homes in Cornwall and worry about Orange’s future. Wonder if I can live to 120. Realise I can’t and that I definitely won’t if I keep eating dry toast and chocolate for dinner. And worrying.

Worry some more. Blank out the worry by scrolling through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, mumsnet and repeat. Social media oblivion.

Sleep. Perhaps.

Repeat.

I had come to think that this was normal. I had also come to think that if I couldn’t also fit in shifting three stone with an intensive fitness regime and clean diet, expanding my mind each night with the latest Ted-Ex talks and Booker shortlisters while also trying to write my own, being a solid support and confidante to those around me in their times of need, giving back to the communities in which I am a part both in the flesh and online, and renovating and decorating our tumbledown house into this schedule, that I was a failure.

In a word, lazy.

I had heard and read too many times that all working parents face the same challenges and come to believe that I should just be able to get on with it without complaint and without dropping a ball. Because that’s what I thought the world tells you it’s possible to do and that if you can’t, you are somehow second rate.

That if I felt tired it must be because I am a weak individual and need to toughen up. That if I felt sad it must be because I am entitled and ungrateful. That if I found something hard it must be because I am stupid or lacking in sheer determination and grit that others seem to have.

That if I read enough motivational self-improvement books and stared at feel-good Instagram posts I would find my way to the top of this mountain.

Because anything’s possible, if you strive hard enough, right?

But this week I have realised that I have been trying to sprint up the mountain. And sprinting up a mountain gets you nowhere fast, other than altitude sick.

On Thursday, that’s exactly what happened. A difficult conversation at work that I would otherwise have taken in my stride tipped me completely over the edge.

For the first time in years I actually cried. And then I couldn’t stop. An avalanche on the mountainside that threatened to bury me alive.

The irony of this occurring inside a mental health unit at work did not escape me. But in fact, now I am grateful. Because it shocked me into realising that I need to slow down from that sprint if I am ever to get to the top and enjoy the view.

To remember that the hare did not win the race, the tortoise did. And that this is not a sprint. It’s an ultra-marathon.

I was never any good at long distance running at school. I’d always start too fast and get puffed out past about 400 metres. I have always been the hare, never the tortoise.

All through my life at this point I have given up and started again. Abseiled down the mountain to try a different one instead. Run to a different start line to sprint along another track.

But this time I need to find the right way to keep going. Not just because there is no choice but because I also want to.

I need to have faith that I’m in the right place, with the right people, doing the right things. Because in my heart, I know that’s true.

And so I need to adapt my pace. While I am pretty terrible at long distance running I know I can get there in the end if I slow right down.

Even when there are steep hills to climb.

The times I have tried to run since moving to Cornwall have taught me that. If I try to be the hare I never make it even half way up the hill out of the village. The hills here are steep but the views from the top are breathtaking. I have learnt that the only way to get there to enjoy them is to be more tortoise. To jog or even to walk before I sprint.

And from time to time I know I have to seek a little rest and sometimes shelter along the way. To take refuge from the wind and rain or simply to take a breath and enjoy the surroundings.

So as a new week starts I will try to slow down in the knowledge that this will help me get to the top of the mountain, not hinder me.

Because if I don’t, I will fall off a cliff. Thursday showed me that the edges really aren’t all that far away.

Thank you to my husband, my boss, my team and my friends Lucy, Ali, Effie and Alex for listening and showing me it’s ok to say you’re not ok, that talking about it is a good thing, and  that trying to be superhuman is stoopid. 

 

 

 

 

The Money Pit: Making a Home Fit for an Orange

What makes a home?

Four walls and a roof over your head? A place that you love, where you feel safe and happy? Somewhere that you can make your own?

Filled with trinkets, dust and clutter or Kon Mari’d to the hilt, a garden with pinstripe lawns and bursting with flowers, or over flowing with children’s toys, are our homes not are an expression and extension of ourselves, who we are, and the people, experiences and things that are important to us?

If you’re a Five Year Planner, a Zombie Apocalypse Prepper, or a fan of lists and spreadsheets (like I am) you will understand how moving into a very old house desperately in need of a top to toe refurb (as we did) and not being able to do it, or even plan properly for how you might do it, (as we haven’t) is enough to make you want to run away, drink gin and live in a tent.

Four years since we moved in, really, I just want to put the whole house in Room 101 and hide under canvas on a cliff top. Right now our home unabashedly tells the story of us floating about in limbo, of hopes as yet unrealised and of best intentions to help from the council that failed.

Because as much as I’d like to start re-landscaping gardens, ripping out kitchens and replacing windows, we have had to hold fire on everything but refitting the makeshift loft extension because we have to adapt our house for Orange. So he can do simple everyday things like get in and out of the house, move around the house in his wheelchair, sleep, eat, bathe and dress.

Our first attempt at adaptations didn’t go so well. You might say.

Expensive. Tearful. And full of F words and C words I don’t wish to repeat.

For the last two and a half years, our garden has been impersonating an industrial wasteland (we are sorry, beautiful Downderry), with lifts that don’t work how they should, concrete paths that shouldn’t have been laid and a striking 1,000 litre plastic oil tank as a stand out feature piece, sitting taped and cracked, proud and high like a mocking memorial to the whole sorry, and expensive, process.

“Beautiful sea view you got but, you know, I just adore that tank!”

We didn’t want lifts in the garden just for kicks. For the Waitrose man to bring the shopping up in or for snails to find comfy homes. After falling down the steps carrying Orange, we needed adaptations and we needed help from the disability adaptations experts at the council to get them right and help us fund them via the national Disabled Facilities Grants scheme.

A system supposedly set up to help people just like us.

And yet the system failed us when we were at our most confused and afraid, with a little boy who couldn’t walk but no-one could tell us why or whether any of the gruelling physio and therapies we were instructed to do every day would actually ever help.

An ill-conceived job, put into the hands of people who were quite happy to take the council’s Disabled Facilities Grant money and disappear off on holiday to Goa, leaving ancient and decrepit workmen who should have long retired to complete a job they were unfit and unskilled to do.

I am relieved and happy to say that the adaptations team at Cornwall Council have made a lot of changes to how they do things since our experience. There are some dedicated, kind and thoughtful people in their team who have listened and who really do want to make things better.

But that doesn’t change the fact that the cost to fix this mess and to build a safe and functional way in and out of the house for Orange is eye watering.

And like a string bean, the boy just keeps growing. It’s not just the outside that needs adaptations, but the inside of our house now too.

I have walked miles around my own home over the last couple of years, trying to visualise where a through-floor lift might go, how we might fit in an adapted bathroom for Orange, where ceiling track hoists might go…

Do we need to widen doors? Move the stairs?

Change bathrooms into bedrooms and bedrooms into bathrooms?

What is that pipe? Where does it go?

Do we need to lift the flagstone floors?

How much will it cost? Can we afford it?

Help.

And so four years in, we are campers in a home we haven’t yet really made our own. With the exception of the living room which has been adorned with the permanent marker of a small girl who thought the ambiance would be much improved by a giant black lighthouse on the wall, we can’t do anything much at all until all the adaptations are designed, built and paid for.

All tent jokes aside, we have considered moving. We really, really have.

But it doesn’t solve the problem that whatever house we live in, we will have to adapt for Orange. And there really are no step-free bungalows on a flat piece of land, with wide doorways, hoists, adapted baths and enough space for a growing family anywhere within a sensible commuting distance of the children’s schools and work.

There just aren’t.

In truth, at £30,000, the DFG is a dinky pebble in the ocean when the cost of a lift alone can be £20,000. Even with a DFG for the outside, and a DFG for the inside, we will need to find money in the tens of thousands to get the jobs done and have a house that is functional, habitable and doesn’t look like a hospital. Or an industrial wasteland.

It’s just the way it is.

And so with blind faith we are leaping into the chasm of asking the bank for large amounts of money and hoping that eventually we can one day pay it back.

Because what is the choice? Really there is none.

When people are surprised that I have fought to maintain my career, that I work a full time job while being a parent carer, this is why.

It is one of the reasons why I don’t take kindly to criticism of me being a full time working mother, from those who think I should be a ‘rock’ at home for my children, or that I have ‘made a lifestyle choice to work’ (yes, there are still people who think this way).

It is why I will continue to campaign for the rights of working parent carers to hold on to their jobs when people and systems around us tell us that we shouldn’t or that we can’t.

Because disability is expensive. And the more disabled you are, the more expensive it is.

And so until I can galvanise to campaign for Disabled Facilities Grants to cover the actual cost of adaptations (because right now, they don’t touch the sides), we, and many other families alongside us up and down the country, step, headlong, into the Money Pit.

Wish us luck.