Yesterday being Saturday, Fat Sister was looking after Sausage and Bean (my nephew and niece) without King Russell, while he took care of some chores. I hadn’t been able to find a support worker who could do my care so my sister, as she often does, generously covered the gap.

Three-year-old Sausage had some birthday money to spend, so once we’d explained the concept of a ‘toy shop’ to him the four of us headed off on foot. The shop’s a half hour walk away at our ambling pace.

Once there, Sausage took the process of choosing very seriously, finally selecting a model helicopter with lights and sounds. His seven-year-old sister, Bean, had some pocket money to spend too, and it was lovely seeing them both excited about their new toys. We had some other errands to run nearby and by the time we’d finished we needed to get home quickly, so my sister suggested we jump on a bus.

As soon as she suggested it, I felt a familiar dread descend. While buses in London are technically wheelchair accessible, the reality of using them is far from straightforward – I’ve written about being driven past, ignored and shouted at by both drivers and other passengers. These situations are even more upsetting when I have a child with me, and because of COVID, I haven’t been on buses much since 2020. But we needed to get home, so we headed to the bus stop.

After a ten minute wait the first bus pulled up and Fat Sister indicated that we wanted to board. The driver attempted to open the ramp, but it didn’t work. I think this was because the bus was too far from the kerb, but the driver wasn’t prepared to move any closer. A second bus pulled up and I approached the driver about getting on that one instead. He didn’t open the door but instead gestured that we needed to get on the first bus. I went back to that driver and explained how his colleague had responded. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ he said, so I asked him to speak to the second driver, which he reluctantly did. All this was happening in front of two buses-worth of people and with two young children to think about at the same time. The second driver eventually relented and allowed us on, and although there was a buggy on board already, there was plenty of room for us both. We had further issues when it came to getting off the bus too, with the driver initially ignoring our request to lower the ramp.

Bean sat on my lap as we went from the bus stop back to mine, and she had lots of thoughts and questions about the experience. I haven’t been on a bus with her since she was a baby so she hadn’t experienced an issue like this before. She’s passionate about accessibility and takes it very seriously. This is one of the first times she’d noticed that people’s attitudes can be as much of a problem as physical barriers. It had clearly made an impression on her because she mentioned it again later to her mum.

I had a lovely time hanging out with my sister and the kids, and while I’m sad we had the stress of negotiating access to buses, it did spark some interesting reflections.

I’d love drivers to have these conversations too, and for them to better understand how their actions, inactions, and attitudes impact on how safe and confident disabled people and our families are when using busses.

Access to transport is about access to the world, to family, friends, health, education, community – and toy shops! It’s no good having ramps if drivers won’t use them.