Web Accessibility – why bother?

So you have a working computer, an internet connection and some assistive technology.  That means you can access any webpage, right?

Wrong

It can be hard to explain what “web accessibility” is all about.  I thought I might furnish you with a couple of examples and a couple of general pointers. First, the examples…

Bouncers of the Internet – No blacks, No dogs, No blindies!

I’m sure you will have come across a “captcha” – that image of warpified text that claims to sort the machines from the humans.  Maybe you’ve even had a whinge about how difficult they can be to see.  If you don’t know what I’m on about, here’s an example from a Google page:

Screenshot of a visual captcha window from Google
Google Visual Captcha

I tried to understand the audio alternative about 15 times, then started to record my effort.  Bear in mind that I use JAWS, a screen-reading program that gives me audio feedback about what’s happening on my screen.  Every time you hear the word “Enter” and a slight pause, I have tried to submit my effort.  Instead of hearing the same audio again, a new audio file loads. I will give you some kind of prize if you think you can understand the words in any of the 16 captcha samples on this audio recording:

And that’s assuming the Captcha challenge even has an audio alternative, and that the button to request the audio alternative is tagged so that JAWS can detect it. These are by no means givens.

PDF – the universal format

PDF has come to be a standard way to access all kinds of texts. Sometimes, I receive a PDF attachment to an e-mail, which is supposed to carry all the information the sender wishes to communicate with me. Often, PDFs are used online for brochures and publicity – often graphics-heavy publications. They are also the standard format for academic papers and articles.

PDFs have plenty of accessibility features… if the author of the document has bothered to use them. More often, the author is concerned with how the text looks on the page, with neither thought nor care for the underlying code that orders the text. Weird things can happen to words in the most straightforward documents, with headings read as if each letter were on a separate line.

Here’s an example of how JAWS interacted with a price list for spa treatments. See if you can figure out what any of those treatments were or how much they cost…

Universal Access to All Knowledge?

The biggest kick in the teeth has to be my attempt to continue academic work. There are digital and online resources available now that I would have given selected body parts for when I was still officially a student. At the time, which is over 10 years ago now, I even attended conferences about digital humanities specifically to make known how they would be indispensible from an access point of view.

However, the effectiveness of digitisation varies wildly. The wonderful Internet Archive project, of which I’m a huge fan, still has no accessible means (i.e. keyboard-only) of uploading content. A search result has to be navigated using “G” to find graphics, rather than marking search result headers as headings. And then there’s the quality of the digitised texts themselves…

The quality of OCR (Optical Character Recognition) software seems to have progressed incredibly slowly down the years. Many OCR Engines seem to imagine that long text documents use an awful lot more random punctuation than I’ve ever come across. Exclamation marks (!) often appear instead of letters I and L, and capitalisation seems a matter of taste rather than of syntax. The word “arc” is apparently more commonly used than the word “are”… I could go on. Really. I could.

The fact is, if OCR is to have ANY value, it needs to be proof-read by a human being. Even then, JAWS will pick up the odd lower-case L that has been mistaken for an upper-case I. But just scanning a book and lobbing it up on the internet does not count as “Universal Access to All Knowledge”.

I have no desire to single out the Internet Archive as an offender. As I said, I love the project. It’s what the Internet was sent from Heaven to achieve. The most recent culprit (and I find at least one a week) for bad access I’ve run into (face-first) is Academia.edu. Never mind invisible buttons and menus that can’t easily be reached. Here’s an article I tried to read this evening. Apparently, it’s about Disability Arts. Here’s what JAWS says:

And here’s a few screen shots. I use visual themes on my PC which hurt my eyes less when I need to read the screen (at least I can still do that). The size of the text at the top of the first image should give you an idea of how big it has to be before I can read it. My mum uses similar settings, although she doesn’t use screen-reading software. So this is pretty much what she’d be faced with:

NOTE: This is NOT the fault of contributers to the site. It’s down to the programmers.

First Screenshot showing a paper on Academia.edu

Second Screen shot from a paper on Academia.edu

Third Screen shot from a paper on Academia.edu

Fourth Screen shot from a paper on Academia.edu

Fifth Screen shot from a paper on Academia.edu

That’s all I have the energy for right now. This is a big topic, and it affects me every single day of my life. No doubt, I’ll need to rant on it again soon…

Advertisements

Mobility Allowance Scrapped

This was posted by my dear friend, Kiwi Katie, in her blog on her business site, Adaptable Solutions.  Katie works as an accessibility and inclusion consultant, and is not a woman to mess with!  She rants so well that I thought it simpler to re-post what she has written about the scrapping of the Mobility Allowance and Motorised Transport Grant.

Pile of Rubbish

Yesterday, the Department of Health confirmed mobility allowance and motorised transport grants would be scrapped, despite Ombudsman recommendation for them to be widened to include people 66 and over.

Worryingly it has taken 13 years, since the introduction of the Equal Status Acts, to realize that people with disabilities exist both under and over the age of 66. Did they imagine that a disabled driver suddenly would not require modifications to their car, over the age of 66? Or that people over 66 never develop disabilities? Honestly, this notion alone is quite laughable.

Assurances have been made that the €10.6 million fund, formerly earmarked for the mobility allowance and motorised transport grants, will be utilised to meet the transport need of people with disabilities. However if this was sufficient to meet the needs of all people with disabilities then the scope of these supports would have simply been widened, as recommended. No matter which way you look at it, the 5000 people that currently rely on these supports will face cuts.

As a wheelchair user and a business owner, I simply couldn’t live my life or do my job without access to a modified vehicle. As a rural dweller, even if public transport was universally accessible, the nearest inaccessible bus stop is over a mile away and services are limited to twice daily.

Whilst the government is all too willing to consider the financial ramifications of the Ombudsman’s ruling, they seem to be completely ignoring the social implications. People are being made prisoners in their own homes and this will impact on society as a whole.

People with disabilities are: Parents whose children rely on them to drive to schools, clubs etc.; Employees / Employers trying to get to work; Consumers that play a vital role in the local economy; Over 65’s with family and community roles that continue long into retirement; Children whose unlimited potential is being stifled.

What is most abhorrent is that the value of people, with disabilities (and their families), has been completely dismissed. In a time when the government is aggressively pursuing measures to bolster domestic activity, people with disabilities are isolated. Continuous cuts in supports and services render full participation in society and the economic recovery, further and further from possible. Not only is this counterproductive, it is simply cruel!

Free Travel!!!!!!!!!! (terms and conditions apply)

In Ireland, people on various state supports are entitled to a Free Travel pass for public transport.  That’s great – and a scheme I think should be spread throughout the EU.  At least, it would be great if not for a few hiccups…

This evening, I arrived at Carrick on Shannon train station, intending to go to Sligo for a NW LGBT Pride meeting.  Now, due to the train timetable, I was due to arrive in Sligo 10 minutes after the meeting was due to start, and I was facing having to find a decent wheelchair accessible taxi once I got to Sligo so that I’d have a chance to get to the meeting before it ended.  But one hurdle at a time…

As usual, the relevant part of Carrick train station was closed.  This turns the station into a platform with a bit of shelter from the rain.  No access to the toilets, no facility to get a ticket before getting onto the train, no possibility of making enquires.  And no one to unlock the little shed where they keep the wheelchair ramp.  But nothing unexpected there – we can’t expect Iarnróid Éireann to pay station masters sufficiently so that they turn up for 10 minutes or so every couple of hours.  I’m sure the station masters have plenty of other essential jobs to be doing…

The next step was a phonecall.  Now usually, I’m heading to Dublin, and I ring the Information Desk at Connelly Station.  This used to work fine, but I think there’s been some kind of change of personnel.  I’ve rung up a number of times lately and said; “Hello.  I’m a wheelchair user, and I’m getting the [insert time here] train from Carrick on Shannon to Dublin.  Could you contact the train to let them know I need a ramp to get onto the train?”  That used to be enough.  More recently, though, I’ve got responses like; “Ok……………….” or “You have to ring Carrick train station” or “What do you want me to do?”.  It can take a bit of convincing and repetition to get these staff members to make one simple call.  In fact, it makes no sense to expect us to call the particular train station we’re travelling from or to on a particular day.  Would we expect a tourist to magically have this information?  Indeed, I’m no tourist, but I don’t have the number for Sligo station in my phone.  So I rang the Iarnróid Éireann customer information line, and was on hold for about 10 minutes.

When a human being finally came onto the line, I gave the usual patter: “Hello.  I’m a wheelchair user and I want to get the train from Carrick on Shannon to Sligo.  I’m at Carrick station now and there’s no-one here.  Can you call the train to let them know I need a ramp to get on board?”  As usual, I immediately had to repeat this – I don’t think people listen to the first part of what I say, and are clearly incapable of deducing that I’m a wheelchair user from the request for a ramp.  When the person on the other end of the line finally understood my simple request, he seemed unsure of why I was asking him.  He commented that I should book several hours in advance.  Now, when I started using a wheelchair, I tried to do this.  The response was either; “Call us back closer to the time”, or “Call the train station you’re travelling from”.  That’s when I saved the direct phone number to the Connelly Station information desk to my phone, and why I gave up following the “official” guidelines.  Besides which, there is usually a ramp at the station itself and on the train – that’s how they get the tea trolley on board.

When I explained to this guy that there was no point ever trying to ring Carrick and that I didn’t have the number for Sligo, he still seemed reluctant to take any action.  I asked if he could call the train, and he said “I’ll see what I can do”, which doesn’t inspire great confidence.  He was let off the hook by the train pulling into the station at that moment, as he said, “Someone on the train will probably help you.”  Great.  Thanks.

The guys (and gals!) who work on the train itself between Dublin and Sligo are fantastic, and they know me well by now.  Shortly after the train pulled in, three guys, including the train driver, were on the platform to sort me out.  They went up and down the train to find out where the ramp was stashed, but to no avail.  I commented that the ramp was used to get the trolley on board, but apparently the ramp had been left behind at another station.  The lads then got on the phone to raise the elusive station manager – no joy.  It started to piss with rain, a serious tropical downpour, and the lads conferred about what we should do. Pretty immediately, they offered to order a taxi for me, saying that the previous week there was someone at Boyle station who had to get a taxi to Dublin, all paid for by IÉ.  It was coming up to 15 minutes after the train was supposed to leave, and I was dubious of being able to get an accessible taxi at that time of the evening.  It could have been up to an hour waiting on the train platform, followed by an arduous journey in a taxi without the snack food and tea I was depending on getting from the infamous tea trolley.  So I declined their offer, promising to write and e-mail of complaint, waited for the rain to abate and wended my way home.

This is far from the worst train travel experience I’ve had in the last 6 months.  One evening, getting the last train from Carrick to Dublin, it was the usual scenario of no-one home at Carrick station.  When the train pulled in, I was waiting a while for a ticket inspector to emerge.  Finally, the driver himself came out, as there was NO OTHER STAFF MEMBER on the train.  He and another passenger found the ramp, got it out and put it in front of the train door.  In hindsight, I was a little uncertain of the ramp’s stability, but didn’t say anything.  [I tend to operate on the “passing as blind” basis in these situations: if I “give away” that I have some sight, then I won’t get the assistance I need to deal with my visual impairment.  And it’s come to my attention that using a wheelchair tends to trump having a guide-dog: it was only when the staff at the Hotel Isaacs in Dublin offered me assistance based on the visual impairment that I realised how little of that support I get these days.]  So I started up the ramp.  When my front wheels landed on the train, the back wheels shot the ramp out from under me and landed on the platform.  It turns out that these ramps have a strip of grippy stuff at the end to hold the top edge of the ramp in place, but it only has it on one side.  The ramp had been put on the wrong way around.  How was the poor train driver to know this?  Is it so hard to design a ramp that works equally well whichever way round it is?  So I was sitting half on the train and half on the platform, taking a few moments to be thankful that Carrick is NOT one of the many stations around the country with a yawning chasm of doom between the train and the platform.  The driver and the helpful passenger somehow managed to lift the heavy back end of my chair and enable me to get all the way into the train, even though at the time I didn’t want them to touch the chair.  In  power chair, you have a low centre of gravity, and an assistant can’t help to push you unless the motor is disengaged, so it’s rare that someone else pushing or lifting can be of any help.  And my concern is that someone rushes to help and then I drive over and break their foot, or they break their back trying to manoeuvre the unweildy bulk that is the chair.  My usual comment is: “I’m not going to share the chair!”

That incident left me quite shaken, and since then, whenever a ramp is put down for me, I ask someone to put their foot on the bottom to keep it steady.  But that’s not actually the worst experience of the last six months.

The DART Incident

My oldest friend in the world got married earlier this year.  For her hen night, afternoon tea was arranged at a posh hotel in Killiney the Saturday after St. Patrick’s Day.  This worked well for me, as I was to be in Dublin to go to Áras an Úachtaráin on Paddy’s Day itself.  Getting there was a whole ‘nother story…

I was staying at Hotel Isaacs right beside Busáras, where I was treated really well by the hotel staff as well as the restaurant.  The former were delighted that my assistance dog was called Isauq like their hotel; and the latter were fascinated by a dog enjoying crunchy carrots, on one occasion delivered in person by the manager.  It seemed simplicity itself to get the DART from Connelly station across the road to Killiney station, but I still rang my pals at the Connelly info desk to be sure to be sure.  I got the usual “Sure, just come over to the desk when you get here.”  Which I did.

Now, there was some big match on that day, and Connelly was pretty busy, but that’s not unusual for a city centre station on a Saturday.  I went to the desk, repeated my request, and was led over to the DART platform and successfully deposited on the train.  All well and good.

The train pulled into Killiney station, which I was actually aware of since they’ve finally got audio announcements on the DART (they didn’t for years – a real pain for VIPs!).  I made my way to the carriage doors, pressed the button and the doors slid open.  I sat and waited for someone to come with a ramp.  Nothing happened.  I looked down at the platform, six inches away from me, but utterly impossible to get to.  The doors started to close.  I pressed the “Open” button repeatedly, but with no effect.  The doors slid closed in front of my face and the train pulled away again.  “Ok,” I thought to myself.  “We’re not far from the terminus at Bray.  I’ll get off there, make a complaint and get the next DART back to Killiney.”

The DART pulled into Bray, and the train emptied its passengers.  I waited by the door again.  Again, I looked at the platform immediately in front of me, that might as well have been 20 miles away.  The doors started to close again.  I repeated the futile button pushing, probably saying “No! No! No!”, and started to shake and cry.  The DART pulled away again, then stopped a short istance from the station, and went silent.  I lit a cigarette and called the Connelly information desk again.  I did my best to explain the situation, although I’m pretty sure I used the phrase “I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”  I spotted a staff member walking past the dormant train, but he didn’t seem to notice me.  Connelly said they’d contact Bray station and get me sorted out.  Shortly after that, the driver of the DART came back and apologised to me profusely. He told me that a passenger who’d got off at Bray told them I was still on board.  The “system” [a term I use quite loosely here] is that whover puts you on the DART tells the driver where you’re going and whereabouts on the train you are.  No one had told this driver I was there.  He told me to stay on board, that he’d be returning to Bray shortly, and that he did.  At Bray, other staff members came to talk to me.  They were furious that they hadn’t been told I was on the train.  They also told me that there was no staff at Killiney station, and that the best thing would be to get off at Shankill and they’d get me a taxi to Killiney

At Shankill, I finally got off the train.  The station master called for an accessible taxi for me, which only took an hour to arrive.  Throughout this time, I was also calling my friends at the hen party, who were also trying to find a taxi to get me there.  The taxi driver, when he arrived, was genuinely helpful and sympathetic: he was also the first taxi driver I’ve had who bothered to tie the chair down in the back of the taxi.

I had a great evening wit my friends, although the hotel itself was a bit of an access nightmare, with weird lifts, entry and exits via a disused, unlit lobby, and the most ridiculous adventure through back corridors and 45 degree ramps to get to have a cigarette.

My journey home was not nearly so traumatic, although there was a good reason for this.  The station master at Shankill put me on the DART in a carriage which was marked with the wheelchair symbol.  As I pulled in beside the door, I noticed a handy little intercom, enabling someone like me to contact the driver in the event of, say, not being able to get off the fucking train.

So, those are the highlights of my Free Travel over the last six months.  There are plenty more stories from farther in the past, and I’m sure there’s many more delightful anecdotes to come.

THE NEW (or maybe not-so-new) APARTHEID

I first met Kiwi Katie about four years ago, when I was still using my legs and she had just started using a wheelchair.  The Citizens’ Information Board was conducting research into the housing needs of people with disabilities, and this was their final focus group: one which actually included a few people with disabilities.

Katie caught my eye – or more accurately, my ear – as another articulate, young and motivated person with disabilities.  It was something of a relief not to be the only person talking in the room.

We finally got a smoke break, and Katie and I got to talking.  At some point in the conversation, she described the experience of using a wheelchair as “apartheid”.  I was shocked.  It’s a very loaded term, especially for those of us who witnessed the release of Nelson Mandela with joy.

But Katie went on: “I can’t go in the front door – I’m sent around to the servants’ entrance.  Our toilets are segregated.  I can’t use the mainstream bus service.  I can’t get onto a college campus or into an employer’s business premises.”  And I saw, to my horror, that she was right.

 

The parallels between the experiences of people with disabilities and people living in an ethnically segregated regime were deliciously demonstrated for me in an unexpected form.  “Better Off Ted” is one of those rare, witty, intelligent, satirical US sit-coms – and yes, it got cancelled after only 2 series.  The “sit” of this particular “com” is a department of a massive and sinister multinational corporation, “Veridian Dynamics”, and the characters work in research and development and product testing – from cow-free beef (“the meat-blob”) to weaponised pumpkins via glow-in-the-dark squirrels.


*** SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT! ALERT! THERE’S A SPOILER COMING! ***

 

In one episode, “Racial Sensitivity”, one of our scientist buddies finds things in the lab mysteriously turning themselves off and on.  He tries to activate the motion sensors which control the lighting, then the doors, the toilets, drinking fountains, the lift… all to no avail.  The heroic Ted (his boss) goes to find out from Veronica (Ted’s boss) what’s going on.

The answer turns out to be that the company has upgraded all the systems in the building from being motion activated to being light activated; specifically, light reflected off human skin.  This means “it doesn’t see black people”, which Veronica is told by her superiors is a positive thing, since it sees Asians, Hispanics and Jews.

Rather than reverting to the old system, the company starts to install “Manual Drinking Fountains: For Black Employees Only”and the like.  Our scientist buddy at the centre of this says; “Thank God we don’t have a company bus”.

Their next attempt is to employ a bunch of minimum-waged white guys to follow every black employee around to “activate stuff” for them.  But Human Resources is concerned that this is discriminatory recruitment practice, so they’ll need to hire another black guy to follow the white guy who’s following the black employee, then the second black employee will need another white guy to follow him, and so on ad infinitum.  The case is finally made to the company bosses that they simply didn’t have the parking to employ every human being on the planet by 2012, and the old motion detectors are reinstalled.

 

The experiences of the black characters in this episode finding themselves unable to open doors, turn on the lights or use the lift are instantly recognisable to a lot of people with disabilities.  It even follows the parallel “solutions” of installing separate facilities for us, or of employing “normal” people to bridge that gap for us.  When the central character in these events (Lem) decides he’s had enough of this segregation, he says to his colleague, Phil: “I still have my dignity! Now will you please come with me so I can use the toilet!”  Sound familiar, fellow mutants?

 

This may be quite a convoluted way of making a point, but I think it’s a good exercise in context, perspective and humour.  It is valid to describe the supports and services and basic amenities available to people with disabilities as “apartheid”, and it is also valid that this is schocking.  So it should be.  I have no idea whether the writers of “Better Off Ted” had any thought in their head about disability rights issues, but they have nonetheless created a challenging, effective and funny picture of what it takes for person with disabilities to do those “simple” things that others take for granted, be it using a toilet or walking through the front door.

Direct Payments – Insidious Erosions

Today, I will be attending a “Solidarity Event” hosted by the Network of Centres for Independent Living.  This event aims to bring together representatives from Centres for Independent Living from around the country with TDs and the media, to publicly lobby to protect services for people with disabilities and prevent massively unfair cuts coming at us from a number of directions.

Now, we need this network, and we need events like this, but I’m not in full accord with the agenda. Top of the agenda is a call for our “leaders” (elected representatives) to commit to bringing in Direct Payments as part of a Personal Assistance Act.  There is no doubt that a Personal Assistance Act is long overdue in Ireland to enshrine in law the human rights of people with disabilities that Ireland have signed up to in a number of UN documents.  Since 1994, these documents have stated that access to a Personal Assistance Service is a RIGHT (not a privilege or a luxury) for people with disabilities, and that such a service be provided on the basis of the needs of the person with disabilities, NOT according to the miniscule budget allocated on a year-to-year basis by the HSE.

My main point of contention with this as the top item on our agenda today is the emphasis and priority given to Direct Payments.  “Direct Payments” sounds great, doesn’t it?  I heard it described by one disability activist as a “no-brainer”.  However, it has a specific meaning when it has those capital letters, as well as a specific history.  And in the context of the rights of people with disabilities in Ireland and the services currently available to us, it also has certain implications.

First to its meaning.  Direct Payments (with its fancy capital letters) refers to a scheme whereby a person with disabilities would have their needs for a Personal Assistance Service assessed, and would then have a lump of money given to them so they can employ and pay a Personal Assistant privately.  Currently, we have to go through a service provision agency, be that the Irish Wheelchair Association or a Centre for Independent Living, who administer the service according to the budget allocated to each individual service user by the HSE.  Of course, if you are miraculously rolling in cash, you can buy the service from a private company.  So Direct Payments would mean cutting out the “middle man” of the service provision agency.  And this is doubtless ideal for some people.

The history of Direct Payments is an interesting one, given the current climate in Ireland.  They were innovated in Europe by the Swedish, who have been trailblazers in the Independent Living Movement, and whose social democracy has put most other EU countries to shame in terms of creating a fairer and more equal society with an enviable standard of living.  Sweden had already established a Personal Assistance Service before anyone thought of Direct Payments.  So how did the idea even arise?  Simple: Recession.  When the country hit a rough economic patch in the 80s, services for people with disabilities were suddenly under threat.  Direct Payments were thought up as a way of selling PA services to the government, while making it look like an overall saving for the exchequer.  It looks like a saving because suddenly everything gets measured in “unit costs”, the government is saved all that fiddly administration such as drawing up contracts, organising accredited PA training and filing all those employer tax returns.

So in the context of Ireland right now, this makes the rosy glow with which a government department might view Direct Payments seem more like a sinister fog.  All the talk in the HSE now is about “unit costs” – a way of seeing each individual with disabilities as just that – individuated, without context, without community.  It turns the notion of a social economy inside-out. 

It is fair to say that Direct Payments would be, at least in the short term, a pilot project, offered to those who want it.  But given the way disability organisations seem to be screaming for it and heralding it as the ultimate realisation of our human rights makes me feel that it could become the expected norm.  In that scenario, anyone who didn’t want Direct Payments would once again be “a burden”, an awkward stick-in-the-mud who wants everything handed to them on a plate.

Here’s how I would feel if I was offered Direct Payments today (or even next year):

·              I have better things to be doing with my time than to become an employer and administrater to the people who are supposed to make my life easier

·              My PAs would be people who showed up to my house every day, rather than part of a network of PAs and Leaders sharing the ideals of Independent Living.  Who do I talk to if I have issues with a PA?

·              Currently, the HSE grants me 15 PA hours per week, and the PAs get paid approximately 14 euros per hour.  The vast majority of Leaders would say they could do with more PA hours than they currently have.  But if I were given the cash to pay my PAs 14 euros an hour for 15 hours a week, then the government would be giving 790 more euros per annum for their pay than the government deems it sufficient for me to live on.  That just feels like a kick in the teeth.  What about all the hard work I do to keep myself alive and be active in my community?  Is that worth less? Or should I stop trying so hard to be a complete human being?

·              If the government gave me that 10 grand a year in a big brown envelope, I’d rather spend it on buying and maintaining the power wheelchair I need (which the government refused to give me any money for); I’d spend it on the ludicrously expensive bits of assistive technology I need, like 5000 euros for a 40-cell Braille display; I’d spend it on a nice big double bed with the mattress and position adjustments I need rather than accepting the government’s offer of a hideous, narrow, uncomfortable, un-sexy hospital bed which is actually more expensive, but the hospital ordered too many so they just want to get rid of them.

 

And that’s not even touching on the massive issues of transport and housing that all people with disabilities face every day of their lives. 

But who am I to swim against this particular tide?  Prominent voices in the disability community adore Direct Payments, and governments like it because it sounds “empowering” (in a capitalist kind of way), and adds up neatly in the books which have no column for a social cost / social benefit analysis.  And given the current blasted Irish landscape, it may well come down to accepting that or accepting a return to the bad old days of dank institutions and blind beggars grazing their donkeys on the long acre.