I was mildly surprised at The Globe last weekend when, early on in All’s Well that Ends Well, the ailing King of France was pushed on stage in a rather tasteful sixteenth century wheelchair (or what looked suspiciously like an NHS issue chair, pimped up Jacobean-style with leather-effect, coat-of arm-embossed wheel covers). He wasn’t in it for long before being miraculously cured by Helena and her herbs, but long enough to get me thinking about my own complex relationship with the wheelchair.  First amputation round, I’d never have imagined that I’d be someone who would readily agree to being pushed around supermarkets and department stores.  Now I find myself humming with happiness as I’m propelled along aisles of food or clothes, something Anna finds particularly alarming.  But it’s the thought of having to use a wheelchair for anything other than shopping trips and beating the EasyJet queues that keeps me practising with my Pneumatic Post Amputation Mobility Aid – a device as unwieldy as its name, comprising a blow up rubber tube and metal frame.   Now that’s something I’d like to see on stage.