The horror of travelling around a city like London as a disabled person

If you haven’t tried the Elizabeth Line, I’d advise you to give it a whirl the next time you’re in the capital. If you’re able-bodied, that is.

Crikey, I thought to myself as I headed home from a visit to The Independent’s offices, what on earth is going on here? It’s like entering a fantasy. Or jetting off to Japan. Spacious modern trains running with almost clockwork regularity, almost going swoosh like the Starship Enterprise as they hustle in and out of the station. Wait, was that Captain Picard I just spotted?

The member of staff I met at the platform even asked me my name as I wheeled down to the disabled entrance with him. And he told me his. I confess, I’m not sure I responded as well as I ought to have. I’m used to being dehumanised by London transport staff, who typically refer to me as “the MIP” (mobility impaired person) as if I’m sort of strange and annoying creature designed to be a monstrous pain in their rear ends.

I will not have this, said the man in uniform at Moorgate. You are a human being. I’m going to make sure you feel like one. Okay, he didn’t say that. But that’s what it felt like. And it worked. I even broke tube etiquette and smiled. Until we arrived at Stratford.

If Moorgate could be rechristened “Nirvana for the disabled traveller”, Stratford is the child of a lesser god. The Olympic station is one of those you don’t want to visit on wheels – at least if you happen to be heading eastbound.

Despite the enormous cost of the Elizabeth line, they couldn’t find a few quid extra to make the eastbound platform at Stratford step-free for wobbly people. So someone has to trot out one of those garish yellow ramps so you can exit the train. The friendly, welcoming demeanour at Moorgate had also vanished.

The assistance I’d rather not have called upon – I don’t want anyone’s help because I want to be able to accomplish getting around myself – was provided with ill grace at best. I was back to my being an MIP irritant once more.

The surly pair of Lizzie line staff, decked out in high-vis jackets, stood like statues. They glowered at the platform in front of me as, tentatively, I wheeled up from the Central Line platform, had a wee think about it, and then ventured to pose a question: what’s happened to the ramp for the next stage of the journey? So I can get home? The one requested for me at Moorgate?

I should explain, when we pesky MIPs ask for help, we typically have to carefully outline every step of the journey before they’ll radio ahead. They have to see “if we have the staff available” to assist before you can rock’n’roll.

Sometimes they don’t, which leaves us in a bit of a bind.

“It’s the underground’s property,” one snarled. “They’ve been called.” That’s me told.

More waiting as I was left thinking, what the hell? This is supposed to be an integrated system. Transport for London or what have you. But because the Elizabeth Line is in one bit and the Central line another, it takes two people to be called and an interminable wait, to do the job of one with the ramps.

When I last wrote about fun and games MIPs have when it comes to getting around town, an appalled Andrew Boff – a Tory member of the Greater London Assembly – was good enough to contact me and then raise the issue with the mayor, Sadiq Khan.

He said, and he was right, that a journey ought to be boring. Routine. Trouble-free. And yet, still, several years down the track, you know that when you head out you’re as likely as not to run into some form of difficult or ill treatment.

It’s for this reason I rarely go into the office, which is frustrating because I quite like going in. I like the people I work with. It’s just that completing the Cheltenham Gold Cup every time you want to see them is exhausting, stressful, sometimes scary, and often maddeningly frustrating. Incidents like this, which might seem trivial in the grand scheme of things, mount up. I find myself having to pack fidget spinners and stress balls just to get onto a platform.

And this is what makes me shudder a bit: in London, we’re relatively spoiled. This is about as good as it gets for disabled people.

Are my fellow Britons okay with that? I’d really like to think that they’re not.