Last week I stepped out of my comfort zone and into a dilapidated church hall in Brighton where I played table tennis with a group of young adults with learning disabilities.
I didn’t distinguish myself. I’ve always had a problem with physical co-ordination. Anyone caught in the hailstorm of ping-pong balls I sent on to the floor might conclude that I had a learning disability of my own.
Though they probably wouldn’t say so. These days “learning disability” is the official euphemism for people who were once described as “mentally handicapped” and, before that, “retarded”. It’s the only acceptable formulation and you’re certainly not allowed to use it flippantly, as I just have.
