Ian Hamilton: Being blind is not a defence against embarrassing predicaments. It's the ones that make you look like a pervert that are the worst.

IAN HAMILTON

Being blind is not a defence against embarrassing predicaments. And it's always the ones that end up making you look like a pervert that are the worst - particularly when you're trying your best to appear natural.

These embarrassing encounters always seem to happen to me when I'm approaching double doors. It's odd - one of those strange coincidences, like when you drop a piece of bread and jam and it always falls jam-side down. In the same way, if there is a breast around, you can guarantee I'll find it 99 times out of 100. I'm not looking for them, but for some reason they appear as if by magic.

Picture this: I am strolling nonchalantly along a corridor, thinking about lunch, when suddenly the guide dog stops. "Ah, it must be a double swing door," I think. So I put out my hand to push it open - only to find myself cupping a breast.

There is always a delay of a second or so when I find myself frozen in terror, working out my next move. Strangely, the owner of said breast never speaks, mumbles, screams or coughs.

In my defence, how am I meant to know that someone is there? Let's look at the scene again from the owner of the breasts' perspective. "Oh, look! Here comes a blind man with his dog. I think I should hold open one of these doors and stand extremely quietly in the gap, barely breathing and he'll not know I'm here. Oh, he's stopped in front of me. Should I say something now? No. Oh!

He's got a hold of my breast. Don't breathe, don't move, say nothing. You would think his dog would know that I was here."

Take the same scene now, from the dog's view. The dog looks at the open door and the woman standing in the narrow gap holding it open. He sucks in his cheeks and looks up at me, while raising one eyebrow. "How am I meant to get him through there? If only she would get out the way. What they teach you at guide-dog school is to sit quietly until the humans sort it out. Fat chance. If only I could give her a quick nip, that would shift her," he might think.

Over the years I've tried various techniques to change the way I open doors, such as dropping my hand to a lower spot - but that could have implications that are even worse.

Years ago, when button-operated train doors came into use, I had another embarrassing encounter. I had been counting the stops so I knew I was approaching Glasgow Central. I remembered that the buttons were on the right of the automatic double doors. When the train finally stopped, I reached out my hand to press the button, which is about shoulder-height. I stretched out my hand - only to feel a face, which I was pressing firmly with the palm of my hand, forcing the person's head backwards against the button. As the door slid open, the dog and I shot out, not hanging around for a response.

These incidents bring me no pleasure. They are highly embarrassing. It doesn't matter how often it happens - I still don't know how to get out of it, or what to say. If people only said something - "hello" would do - we could avoid all this awkwardness.

So if I have inadvertently grasped your breast because I thought you were a door, or used your face as an exit button, please accept my sincere apologies.

Ian Hamilton reports on disability issues for BBC Scotland