Posted on July 30, 2025

We woke to the unmistakable clatter of the bin men — too late for the garden waste, again. That sort of domestic defeat where you just sigh into your slippers and accept it.

Coffee became the consolation prize. While the kettle hissed, I began my usual breakfast — 14 tablets, swallowed one by one in silence. Not exactly a fry-up, but my body has its own checklist before the rest of me is allowed to function.

Still half-asleep, I cradled my coffee like a shield while the kids launched their morning offensive:
Can we get chips? Are we having ice cream? Can we paddle?
Their enthusiasm came in rapid bursts — relentless, chaotic, but hilarious. I negotiated a ceasefire long enough to pack the car.

The power chair made the cut today — the manual’s fine when I’m steady, but energy is a currency I need to spend wisely. With snacks, sun cream, and a healthy dose of sarcasm loaded up, we hit the road for Lowestoft.

🌊 Salt, Chips, and Subtle Revelations

By some miracle, we found a disabled parking bay within seconds of arriving. The kids evacuated the vehicle like paratroopers onto foreign soil, sprinting towards swings, slides, and anything they could conquer.

My wife helped with the power chair, and I transferred with the kind of well-rehearsed effort that still leaves a mark. We made it to the seafront playground, where I did my best to push swings and spin roundabouts from the chair — to the kids' delight and my body's protest.

Eventually, pain settled in like an uninvited guest, and I rolled to the edge of the promenade for a breather. Out on the water, a small fishing boat wrestled with dive-bombing seabirds — nature’s way of confirming a good catch.

I was lost in that scene when someone stepped beside me.

It was Darren.

Grinning at me was my old army mate, whom I hadn’t seen in five years. Last time we met, I wasn’t in a wheelchair. Panic flickered — had I changed too much?

Darren didn’t blink. His banter came thick and fast — all insults wrapped in affection, military-style. I volleyed sarcasm back, and the self-consciousness faded. We caught up quickly. Promises of beers and proper conversations were exchanged, and something inside me quietly recalibrated.

Lowestoft had more in store than just scenery.

🛠️ Redefining the Strong Man

As Darren walked away, he turned and waved — a gesture that unlocked years of memory. Patrols in Northern Ireland. Sandbags in Bosnia. Sweat-soaked flak jackets in Iraq. The kind of stuff that lives under your skin, no matter how much memory loss tries to prise it loose.

That kind of brotherhood used to define strength for me. Grit, pain, perseverance. But watching Darren stroll back to his car while I sat comfortably in my power chair, I realised strength isn’t always about standing tall.

Sometimes it’s in showing up differently. In feeling that flicker of shame and choosing not to indulge it. In welcoming an old friend without apology.

Just then, my wife returned — reinforcements had arrived. Her parents, her sister’s kids. Candyfloss negotiations. Toddler squeals. Ice cream incidents. Family chaos had levelled up to full battalion.

And once again, masculinity was quietly redefined. Not as commander-in-chief, but as the anchor. Not suppressing emotion, but letting pride and pain sit side by side without contradiction.

🍟 Simple Joys and a Bit of Good News

We walked along the seafront, the children leading the charge for chips like troops after rations. Watching them devour their salty trophies, chattering and laughing, made me smile. These are the simple pleasures that shape memory. The same chips, the same beach, where I once stood with my own cousins doing the very same.

My daydream was interrupted — my phone rang.
It was Hannah, from my wheelchair supplier. Her cheerful tone felt perfectly timed.

“Hello Dusty, I’ve got some good news for you. We’re expecting your new chair to come in next week. As soon as it arrives, I’ll call you to arrange a delivery day.”

🏖️ Coffee, Sand, and the Edges of Inclusion

With that bit of good news in my pocket, I grabbed a takeaway coffee to go. The kids were desperate to get down to the sand and into the water — understandable, given the heat.

It was a stark reminder that, new chair or not, there would always be places out of reach.

So, while the rest of the family went down to the beach, I watched from the sidelines. I was happy to see them having such fun — truly — but I couldn’t help the pang that I wasn’t at the water’s edge with them.

I sipped my coffee while my wife flitted back and forth, torn between joining in and making sure I wasn’t left out. Despite my repeated assurances she didn’t need to worry, she hovered — part habit, part heart.

By half four, the wind picked up and clouds rolled in. We took that as our cue to call it a day. Sand was shaken off, children herded, and bags packed with military efficiency.

We said our goodbyes, loaded the car, and began the familiar journey home — knackered, windswept, and richer for the kind of moments that don’t look like much, but matter more than most.

👣 Final Thoughts

Lowestoft wasn’t just a family outing. It was a reminder — that strength evolves, that memory lingers even when it blurs, and that joy and loss often ride side by side.

You don’t need a perfect day to feel whole. Sometimes you just need chips, old mates, and the grace to sit still while life moves around you.