We are under what those men and women with perfect hair call a 'settled weather pattern.'  They will gesture vaguely at the map.

    It is a political few seconds for them.  A chance to promenade, discuss an interest in skiing, or sunbathing, or dog walking.  Or one of those interests that we are presumed to all share.

    The assumption of these various universals have me apparently confined to a wheelchair.  Far from developing an empathy between us, which their banter is I think designed to do, I find myself critical of the chirpy little world they profess to represent.   

    In a sense it's the creep of age.  In a sense it's a discordance between my world and theirs.  And in a sense it has to do with the time and resource devoted to those perfect hairstyles. 

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