A place that became wholly mine, inherited from another after they said their own goodbye for postdoc pastures new.

It witnessed the end of my PhD. The rewrites, the tears and the late nights. It's the place I sat and decided I didn't want to be an academic anymore.

Then it saw the flourishing of my career. Mostly quiet except that one working from home day a week, until the pandemic came.

The four walls became home to The Staying Inn, my online pub during the height of Covid lockdowns. Cosy evening chats with nearly 2,000 disabled and non disabled people as we shared community, skills and friendships.

Finally it has been the launchpad for my freelance life. The headquarters of my business over just a few square feet. Although at times it felt like a whole skyscraper as my work expanded, my networks grew and my opportunities accelerated.

This room has heard thousands of hours of online training, talks and meetings. It has been the space where I've received emails about visiting parliament, joining film sets and even the news that my Guide Dog Ava was on her way to be part of my family. Here in this office I have delivered heartfelt zoom lectures grounded in my lived experienced and written passionate articles about disability rights. It has been the location of my greatest achievements and some of my biggest professional challenges.

But for now my desk has been tucked away into another part of the house, another space, only my office for some of the day. A few hours a week.

Keyboard taps have been replaced with baby cries and lullabies.

The room doesn’t mind. It knows how to be four safe walls for a child. Shared by siblings who needed it so many years ago. Ready for another generation, a renewed purpose.

Parenting creates a pause. I miss my sunny yellow room.

But in the early hours as I rock my sweet one to sleep, I still hear some of those speeches and remember those exciting emails. One day, as children grow and move on, I think I might get my workspace back. And I know it will be richer with all the memories of the love, care and laughter it's seen.

Voting in a British election is a sort of sombre ritual, familiar and formal at the same time. The squeak of the church hall lino, the respectful murmur as the address is recited and the ballot is handed over. The flimsy table booth and the pencil on a string.

There are two things that are sacred above all else in the ceremony of the polling station, privacy and independence. Your vote is your own business.

Unless you are blind, and you have to speak your choice out loud.

“Please mark my vote by that party candidate.”

I’ve always voted, as soon as I turned 18 I was desperate to exercise my civic duty. My first experience was the General Election in the spring of 2010 and the great Lib Dem betrayal. I camped down in a living room with my uni friends as the results trickled in and the hung parliament of the wee hours nearly broke David Dimbleby. We jeered, cheered and snored our way through this significant political moment, but there was something I didn’t mention. My Dad had helped me put my cross in the box.

I’d put a lot of faith in the old man, usually he leans Tory, although he does insist that he voted for Blair, twice. I had to similarly trust family, friends and partners to support my democratic choices over the next few elections. But as life grew busier, their assistance wasn’t always available and I found myself at the mercy of the electoral officials.

Well one official in particular, our friend Brian.

Unlike many nations the UK has not embraced technology for mass democratic events. There are no computers, phone lines or even pens.

Therefore, until recently blind and visually impaired voters have had very few options.

First of course, the postal vote. The advantage being that you can complete it in the privacy of your own home, but the ballot itself is still fundamentally inaccessible and you will probably require sighted assistance. So as I explained on repeat to dozens of Twitter reply guys it neither meets the acceptable and equal criteria of being a) private and b) independent.

If you choose to vote in person you can bring someone with you to assist in reading and marking your ballot. This is what I used to do, but it requires a great deal of trust in that individual. It also relies on the usual expectation that all disabled people have a carer neatly tucked away in a wardrobe that we can get out whenever we need. This solution, like the above postal vote, again is still neither a) private or b) independent. Relying on a carer, friend or family member not only compromises the blind voter’s privacy, it also leaves that vote open to abuse.

So what are the solutions from the Electoral Commission, enter stage left the “Tactile Voting Device”. This flimsy piece of plastic is designed to be placed over the ballot. The large, raised numbers and flaps are supposed to guide the blind or vision impaired voter to their choice. However, the TVD cannot tell you who is on the ballot paper or whether you have accurately marked your X in the intended box. It still requires sighted assistance in reading the list of candidates and if you so wish, confirming the location of your mark. Historically blind voters have found that the TVD has been incorrectly placed and even damaged the ballot.

For a decade I had to rely on Brian to read out the ballot, check my vote and on occasion mark my vote after I stated it out loud.

Brian and his colleagues in polling stations across the country are trained and competent individuals. I do trust Brian to do his job and abide by the secrecy of the ballot. But I never know who is in the booth next to me. It could be the mum who let me take the last custard cream at the playgroup, or the taxi driver who dropped me off at the train station, or someone that doesn’t like how I voted and decides to wait for me in the carpark.

Three years ago a new option appeared on the scene. An accessible technology called a McGonagle Reader. You can enjoy Tom from the RNIB demonstrating it linked here. This combined tactile and audio technology is a game changer for vision impaired voters. Rigorously tested by the RNIB and trailed in smaller local elections, it was ready to be embraced in July 2024.

An election is always a logistical nightmare for local councils. Usually a small team is responsible for finding the spaces, volunteers and budget to roll out democracy at speed. So when the accessible information was posted online, I got in touch to make my request asap, I would like to vote using a McGonagle Reader.

The reply? No. Unavailable.

I was disappointed, not surprised, but most of all I was determined.

Election day came. Voting was humiliating. A crushing realisation that the barriers were insurmountable. I tried to use the TVD, strained my residual vision, tried to use an AI app to read the ballot paper to me, but I wasn’t confident my x would be in the right box. “Brian, can I have some help please?”

The next day I emailed the lawyer.

Now, while I cannot share the details of those legal exchanges, or dwell on the extensive unpaid advice and time I gave the electoral office, I can celebrate the outcome.

In May 2026 I voted independently and privately.

I requested the use of the McGonagle Reader, I was guided over to a side table and the complex set up began. Brian was a bit nervous. It didn’t work. A hushed phone call, and he tried again. The usb was clicked into the right location and I heard the recorded voice through my headphones. I lifted the flaps, confirmed the audio information for the candidates, and I made my mark. By myself. In secret.

In the local elections this year McGonagle Readers were available in multiple boroughs across London. A little birdie told me that while my litigation resulted in a mutually agreed solution, the impact was felt even in the corridors of Westminster. Which if true, gives me a tiny tingle of pride.

The McGonagle Reader isn’t perfect, especially for many totally blind voters. It still could fail through set up or user error, and the pencil may not work. However, it’s a significant step forward in accessible voting.

The current political landscape in the UK feels a bit bleak and it’s unclear what the next General Election will look like.

However, when I vote again at least there is one guarantee. Nobody else will know, unless I choose to tell them.

So now I’m walking, marching, wheeling.

I need him to sleep. For an hour, or two.

So please be quiet. Please.

Please don’t laugh too loud. Play with your barky dog in that other park. Just today. Please. Don’t empty that bin or put up that scaffolding.

Just for another ten minutes, please.

Because everything hurts.

I didn’t know you could walk when your body is so tired, so broken, so leaky. Walk for hours. Pacing, wheeling, stumbling. For the nap. Please turn down that TikTok. Why don’t you have headphones?

The constant prayer. If he sleeps now, he might sleep later!

I used to think Mothers were always going somewhere. Now I know, they’re always just walking. Desperately quietly walking. Solitude that begs for silence.

Another 5 minutes, please. Just shhhhhhh.

And next time, it’ll be easier.

The bald patch in her hair from so many restful nights in the cot. A casual loud conversation with the neighbour who wants to peek into the pram, and I don’t mind.

Next time, it’s always loud.

That older one playing with dinosaurs as you snooze in the sling. And he snores too. At last.

But right now, can the world please be quiet. If he sleeps another 5 minutes I might be able to sit down on that bench near the …

Shit. Car alarm.