My parents didn't give me any scope to feel sorry for myself. They were just like 'go play with your brother, go climb a tree, go fall off your motorbike, do whatever you want. Don't come crying to us when you get scratched. You've got prosthetic legs - that's very nice.'

I’ve been followed home late at night. I’ve been shot at on the highway.

I still find it strange, I suppose, when I say to someone, ‘Can you just pass me my leg?’ But I don’t ever think about my disability.

I want to wake up every day and feel that I’m training harder than my competitors, that I’m dieting harder, that I’m recovering better. That’s what gives me confidence when I’m lining up on the blocks. I’ve never gone out to prove people wrong. I just want to be the best that I can possibly be.

Putting on my legs is like putting on my shoes. I understand that’s how some people might think differently, but I hope that in London, their perceptions open up.

I grew up not really thinking I had a disability. I grew up thinking I had different shoes.

I have run two Olympic ‘A’ standard times over the past 12 months and with the time I ran at the African Championships last week I know my speed and fitness are constantly improving so that I will peak in time for the Olympics.

I made the mistakes not because I’m tired.

I wasn’t happy with my performance at the World Championships in Daegu. I had an unbelievable race in the heats, but misjudged the semi and finished last.

Everyone has setbacks. I’m no different. I happen to have no legs. That’s pretty much the fact.