Plastered in Paris

It is Sunday afternoon. I'm watching the Antiques Roadshow, sighing at the way we bin junk which are other people's antiques.

A scrabbling noise approaches from behind me. My wife has crawled in from the garden. A small, unusually quiet voice announces, ''I fell on the grass. My leg went snap''. Two hours later we left the casualty department at Glasgow's Victoria Infirmary with the said leg encased in thick white plaster from knee to toe. Despatched with the cheerful time-honoured advice, ''take more water with it next time''. The bad news was that my wife had broken her fib. The good news was that it was a clean break.

Then the realisation that we were two weeks away from a booked trip by air to Disneyland Paris, where we were to rendevous with two small grandchildren and their parents. After Disneyland, we'd escape on our own to Paris for rest and recuperation.

What to do? Hirpling on to the bathroom scales, my wife discovered her plaster cast weighted six and a half pounds - this is not a metric household. But her decision was clear - we were going. Days before, I had taken out a new annual holiday health insurance policy. With the ink still drying, I called one of those mysterious Help Lines and told the tale. We wanted to go, but - No problem, we were covered. The broken fib was logged, we didn't have to decide up to the day of travel.

Two weeks on, the Victoria plastering squad reinforced the cast into a walking version. We gave them back their crutches with thanks, replaced them with a sturdy walking stick, and decided we'd give France a try.

I have a son who flies aeroplanes. He pointed out that all airlines have a Passsenger Care service.

The next stage took one brief telephone call to Glasgow Airport. We were travelling by British Midland, first to Heathrow, then on to Charles de Gaulle. A broken leg? A fractional pause could the leg we were discussing still bend at the knee? Yes?

Then everything was fine! My wife had the bright thought that our luggage would be lighter than usual - she could only wear one shoe at a time. But she objected to my inspired idea of selling ''Paris and back'' advertising space on that expanse of snow white stooky. Similarly, she refused a suggestion by two of her friends who wanted to write French language greetings in lipstick.

As we checked in at the airport on the day of travel a wheelchair appeared, propelled by James, a cheerful young passenger care officer. He explained the rules.

While our suitcase was booked straight through to Paris, we had similarly into the passenger assist system. We would be the first passengers aboard each aircraft, we would be last to leave. If the leg hadn't been able to bend at the knee, wheelchair style, there were back-up devices known as sedan chairs. Some varieties of aircraft were less easy to board than others, and flight bookings - even travel routes - could be changed to meet that problem It worked. It didn't cost an extra penny.

Glasgow to Heathrow and across to the Paris flight to Charles de Gaulle - a wheelchair took my wife, usefully festooned with flight bags, packages and walking stick to each aircraft door and deposited her into the hands of cabin staff. Wheelchairs waited at each arrival point. The same happened on our way back.

To be honest, including smooth priority through security checks, immigration, and the rest, it was the smoothest piece of air travel I've know in years. We weren't alone - count the number of wheelchair or hirpling passengers around next time you're flying. At Charles de Gaulle, we were only a few yards and an elevator away from a waiting Disney coach. Next stop, Sequoia Lodge at Disneyland, and help with luggage.

When we got there, M'sieu Disney, who now hosts up to 12 million visitors to Disneyland Paris each year - more than the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower put together - certainly demonstrated that he knows all about the injured or infirm, whatever their ages. There was a wheelchair enquiry desk in the main lobby, banks of broad elevators, there were wide doors and wide corridors. His courtesy buses on the very short distance to Disneyland had wide doors and wide aisles.

The ''cast'' - anyone staff, whether dressed as Mickey, Minnie, or my special friend Goofy - went out of thier way to greet and assist wheelchair or crutch-using guests. Particularly if these were small, wide-eyed children.

At Disneyland itself, there were other wheelchairs for hire at 30 francs per day - the same rate as for children's buggies. The main wheelchair depot is at the start of Main Street. There were toilets for the disabled and wheelchair spaces in restaurants and shops.

But, in the busy, crowded, usually queuing area of attractions - half an hour can be a short wait - it is vital to check the ''queue duration'' notices. The theme park's internal train service has ideal seated carriages, easy to board. But sometimes with a two- hour queue to get aboard.

A few atttractions are really no-go areas for wheelchairs. Two of the best, Small World and the Pirate Kingdom, involve narrow, winding, downhill corridors then boat rides. The boats are easy enough for plastered legs to board, not so easy to leave again.

The undoubted highlight of each Disneyland day is the gaily colourful afternoon parade - and three areas are totally reserved for wheelchair visitors. These are outside Small World, at the Central Plaza in front of the Disneyland Castle, and in the Town Square. But get there early, or forget it! We survived Disneyland, much smaller than the Florida version then we headed for some ''r and r''.

Getting the Plaster to Paris had some problems. Disney's main-line rail station is still being rebuilt, with poor signposting and only one elevator down to platform level or steep escalators. Although, French-style, there was platform-level boarding for trains.

After that, it got worse. Arriving in central Paris was the start of a spider's web nightmare of ramps and moving stairs, poorly signposted or non-existent elevators, without luggage trolleys.

Paris taxis, mostly medium-sized regular saloons, aren't easy when it comes to accommodating plastered legs. Try to pick one of the larger kind.

Our hotel, a stone's

throw from the National Assembly building, was a place where we got priority service and our programme from there began with the Eiffel Tower - not so impressive when you think of the Forth Rail Bridge standing on one end - then to The Louvre, which wasn't too clever for our plaster in Paris. The new entrance may look like something out of Star Wars, with plenty of souvenir shops, toilets, and other facilities. But it ends there. Much of the rest is still uncompromising old-fashioned stone stairways with few handrails. One key elevator just wasn't working. French-style, nobody knew why, nobody seemed to care.

Only the brave would have persisted. Naturally, my wife did. But afterwards, it was a several minutes hirple to the nearest taxi-rank where there was a long queue.

What else do you do in Paris? Any female seems to answer ''shop until she drops''. Galleries LaFayette and the nearby Printemps department store both have elevators, escalators and - God bless them - coffee shops where wilting husbands can be parked while their partners explore.

And so it went on, until it was time to head again to Charles de Gaulle and back to the warm and welcoming world of wheelchair assists, where the most trying part was being a husband scurrying to keep up.

Take a plaster to Paris? It's the only way to travel.