From Cornwall to the Middle East, by accident

I was seventeen and had become rather religious, the fire-and-brimstone kind, preaching in the streets and bible study— but also youth group socials, tepid fruit squash, and acoustic choruses sung with conviction. That’s where I met Jim. Cerebral palsy, wheelchair-bound, speech that made you lean in. Many didn’t. I did. One afternoon, we got talking about the funfair that had rolled into Redruth—diesel fumes, neon lights, and the scent of fried onions. Jim said he’d love to go. I said I’d take him. No one stopped us. I wheeled him all the way from Gladys Holman to Redruth, through the park gates like we belonged. He pointed at the rifle stall. I fired. Missed. Then the coconut shy—he gestured, I threw. Missed again. But the stallholders, bless them, handed over prizes anyway. A soft toy, a plastic whistle. Not out of pity, but something quieter. Recognition, maybe. Or just a shared moment of kindness. Then Jim looked up at the big wheel. “Can we?” he asked, or something close t...