Creatability. Using creative arts to enhance the lives of people suffering from disabilities.

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At Creatability we get the chance to make, draw, have a chat, laugh and plan things. Its great, as we wouldn’t get the chance to meet up other wise. I arranged a holiday to Spain last September with three friends who also come here; Paul, Anne and Elle. It was wonderful and I went swimming in the sea.

I have great difficulty getting about because I was hit by a car in 1989 and went into a coma for six months. I was left half paralysed and since then I have always been in a wheel chair, although I still can use my right hand. My parents are my carers. They are very special and treat me fantastically. Having a place like this to go is thoroughly necessary because without it I wouldn’t have got the chance to meet others who have made an impression on my life. I have created work that has given me meaning and painted many different paintings, three of which you can see; the cats are Pilchard and Missy and my dog Topaz who is 15 years old. The third painting is of myself with my friends Paul and Anne. This painting was inspired by friendship.



Acrylic on canvas: Friendship

Acrylic on canvas: Friendship

Christmas; Acyrlic on Canvas

Christmas; Acyrlic on Canvas


Pilchard and Missy

Pilchard and Missy






You were born in the spring of 1972. Two weeks late in fact. It was a beautiful sunny day. The golden sun was streaming through the front room windows, dancing around the room causing a gorgeous bright light to reflect from wall to wall.

I was trying to finish a little woollen suit in the colour of buttercup yellow; it would suit a baby girl or boy. In those days we were never told which we were expecting.

As I raced quickly through the pattern trying to finish the tiny top, the contractions got stronger and stronger but I was determined to finish the outfit. I gritted my teeth, at last it was finished, Auntie June and Nanny B full of advice like, Del, she needs the midwife, go and get her and me pleading, just a few more stitches. Ouch, it hurts! I knitted more furiously than before. At last, triumphantly, I held it up, I’ve finished!

The midwife duly arrived at 2.15pm, checked me over, Oh, you won’t be giving birth for hours, she smugly said and with that turned on her heels saying, I have another appointment, call me! But after thirty minutes of having my face wiped and back rubbed by anxious relatives, your dad had rushed up the road to the doctors’ surgery and pleaded for the midwife to come back.

Don’t push she said. I can’t help it! I bawled. By now it could have been raining, I was not noticing the weather any more. You were born about 3pm.

I bonded with you the next day my darling. You had a mop of ebony hair and big dark eyes. I fell in love with you. Spring time will always be special.


You, dear Lisa, loved our summer holidays. You enjoyed playing out in the garden with your sisters, or tending to the rabbits as they hopped around thumping their furry feet from side to side, a funny twitch of their button noses. You often mimicked them, your round, cheeky, smiley face made me laugh out loud.

Also our holidays at the seaside when you enjoyed paddling in the cool waters that gently washed over your tiny feet. Then me rubbing the suntan lotion on your back, arms and body. You, you little minx, were always laughing, chasing me with tiny crabs or the pointed star fish. You had found these in the pretty little rock pools.

Using those big chocolate brown eyes, you often got your daddy to buy you an ice cream. I would then watch you as you wore it, like a clown wearing white makeup, because the heat was melting the cone. I loved our happy, enjoyable fun packed outings.


It was your first day at school. I had struggled to stop the big burning, salty tears, rolling down my cheeks. This happened as I dressed you in your smart new navy blue pinafore and primrose roll-necked jumper. Be brave. I told you. It’s going to be a great day.

Daddy and I took your hands and we all walked down the big hill to school. Look Lisa, I chatted to you, can you see those wonderful brightly coloured leaves that are falling to the ground? I let you pick a few. I knew we could make a collage of the many brilliant reds and chestnut browns and sunny orange ones.

I handed you a hanky embroidered with your initial in the corner. We left you at your tiny wooden desk. The teacher assured us that you would be ok. I took a glancing look at you through the big glass window. The little salty tears running down your face were almost too much to bear.

And then at the end of the day you came skipping out of school, well more of a hop, you hadn’t got the hand of two step skip yet. A big beaming smile played on your face and in your out stretched hands, you held a drawing of daddy and me and you. I knew you would be ok darling, I just knew it.


Seasons came and went. This particular year I had asked you father, can we do something different this year please?

We duly planned a Christmas holiday away. But, like all best laid plans, it was going to be smashed wide open.

It was November 1988. I had recently started a job in the town’s newest and biggest store. It was a slow day and as I stood at the produce scales waiting to weigh the fruit, my stomach lurched. I was surprised. It was only 4.30pm and I wouldn’t be home until 6pm for my tea.

Your sister Tracy called for me to go home with her and we went outside in the dark, raining, freezing night. It was horrible. My makeup made me look like Alice Cooper the rock star because there was no escaping the wind and rain. Poor Tracy, her hair was whipped up by the wind and then plastered to her head by the torrential rain.

Our normal bus didn’t arrive on time but we got on one as soon as we could. We chit-chatted nineteen to the dozen and, arm in arm, Tracy and I got off the bus. We crossed that awful road and all of a sudden heard a thud. Tracy saw something rolling and said it was a car’s tyre. Don’t be silly. I chided, only lorries lose tyres.

Within five minutes of arriving home, rat tat tat at the door. Oh, who is that? I thought irritably. It was the young teenager from the next street. Come quickly Mrs B, Lisa has been hurt. You were not due home for another couple of hours. I grabbed my soggy wet coat and ran down the road. What greeted me was horrific. There was a crowd of people standing around someone lying on the wet road. They parted and there was a person laying there with a white jumper over their face. It was you, my daughter Lisa. That had been no tyre that Tracy saw, it was you my darling. Then I saw a man who was saying, sorry, and leaning over you. I flipped and went at him. I was just like a tigress. A big pair of arms pulled me off before I got to him. It was a policeman who gently led me away.

The ambulance men scooped you up, Lisa, and put you in the ambulance. There were no paramedics in those days, just them and a stretcher. We got underway, flashing blue lights and the speed of a jet aeroplane, or so it seemed.

I was asked your date of birth, I don’t know, I wailed, my brain turning to a thick soggy rice pudding. Tracy told them.

Dad arrived after being called by the girls. Hours later you were given the last rites because the doctors said they couldn’t do any more. Don’t believe those doctors, fight it babe and come back to me, darling.

That is one winter I will never forget because that Christmas we did do something different, we visited you in hospital during your massive fight back to life.


You took six months to wake up. You spent one whole year in about four hospitals. But the very next Christmas, 1989, we had you home for good. You were released on December 6th, your Granddad’s birthday, just in time for the festivities which we did at home and have done every year since then, just as we did when you were young.

We love you dearest daughter and always will.