Posted on 7 October 2025

Today’s whistle-stop tour of Norwich might just be the shortest city visit in history. The plan was textbook: park up in Chantry Place, exit onto St Stephen’s Street, and freewheel down the gentle slope towards the castle and market. What could possibly go wrong?

I was happily gliding beside my wife, who was expertly steering the buggy containing our little girl, when—without a jot of warning—my trusty chair came to a complete and abrupt halt, like a stubborn pony refusing a fence. There was a loud CRACK, a sudden lurch, and, with all the finesse of a rodeo cowboy who’d had a few too many pints, I somehow managed to stay in the saddle. I truly amazed myself.

Apparently, I’d fallen victim to a particularly protruding paving slab. A lovely lady at the bus stop, looking entirely mortified, confessed the whole thing had frightened the life out of her and rushed over to ask if I was all right. My wife, meanwhile, looked equal parts startled, furious, and ready to ring the council. I was just chuffed I hadn’t ended up face-first on the grubby pavement.

After transferring to the nearest bench to inspect the damage, I was declaring everything “all present and correct” when my wife—being the seasoned professional she is—whipped out her phone. The investigation began. She snapped photos of the offending slab, complete with timestamp, close-ups of the crack, and even took witness details. I tell you, Scotland Yard could learn a thing or two from her investigative techniques.

Primark Triage: Field Repairs and Retail Therapy 🛋️

Back in my chair, we set off again… only to pull over sharpish. Something was clearly not right. Under urgent orders from HQ (the wife), I was steered into Primark and directed to the seating area like a casualty arriving at triage. As I transferred to the sofa to properly assess the situation, she naturally took full advantage of the moment to go shopping. Of course.

The diagnosis was grim: the front left caster had taken a right wallop and was now pointing somewhere towards Ipswich. Out came my trusty toolkit, and I performed an emergency roadside repair—enough to limp (or rather, wobble violently) back to the car.

While waiting for my wife to finish buying half of East Anglia—and resigning myself to a new dent in my pride, both literal and metaphorical—I rang Paul from Sunrise Medical, my go-to wheelchair wizard. After regaling him with the tale of my Norwich Rodeo, he asked if I was hurt. I told him only my dignity had taken a tumble. He asked for photos and a video, which I instantly sent over. Moments later, my phone rang again.

“Dusty, you home Friday? I’ll be out your way and can swing by to fix it.”

Result! All being well, my steed will be back in fighting form by Friday afternoon.

Moral of the Norwich Story

So, moral of the story: never underestimate a British paving slab—they’re a menace to all. Always carry a toolkit (preferably one that fits in a tiny drawstring bag). And, for the love of all that is holy, marry someone with excellent evidence-gathering instincts.

Thanks again to Paul and the team at Sunrise Medical—absolute legends. Even if the pavements are out to get me, it’s comforting to know I’ve got a backup crew that’s truly top-drawer.

#Dustywentworth