The Christmas Sparkle That Lasts All Year

As someone with Aspergers, I usually think most decisions through to a very lengthy and involved conclusion. Unfortunately, this train of thought, although extensive and detailed, does not always take in the bigger picture. Which is why, one Christmas several years ago, I stood before a discounted job-lot of seasonal wrapping paper and decided it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I reasoned that, with the two-dozen rolls they were selling, I could wrap all of Vanessa’s Christmas presents for the next ten years or so and save myself both time and money. Brilliant.

The paper itself was a tasteful shade of red. Well, tasteful if neon and glow-in-the-dark colours are your thing. I thought it was perfect. It was also covered in glitter, which amplified the red to give a dazzling, sparkly, and slightly drug-crazed-vision feel. Maybe I’d slip some migraine tablets in with Vanessa’s first present, just in case. It was only with hindsight that I realised I should have reflected on why the store-owner wanted to get rid of it at such a knock down price in the first place. He even threw in a few more rolls for free.

When it came to wrapping, I laid out a sheet of the paper, cut it to size, and lifted it up. Beneath was a rectangle of glitter, about half an inch thick. Clearly, the glue used to stick the damn stuff was more Teflon than Araldite. I persevered. Soon, the entire wrapping table, the floor, the lower portion of the walls, and even a few spots on the ceiling were covered in red glitter. I fetched a dustpan and brush to sweep some of the excess blizzard but this only served to send it bouncing into the air, where it stuck on every surface with a static charge. I looked down at my clothes. They looked like the sort of outfit Dorothy would chose to go with her shoes. I got the vacuum cleaner. It managed to clear a small area so that the colour of the carpet began to show through but was soon covered itself. Vanessa arrived home and asked whether maybe a glitter factory had exploded nearby.

On Christmas Day, when Vanessa came to open her presents, we both braved the wrapping paper with the same stoicism that the Bedouin brave a sandstorm. Cover eyes, mouth, and nose, and avoid breathing deeply. The industrial extractor we fitted above the present-opening surface helped but the house still resembled a psychedelic seventies-style discothèque once we had finished.

Since that day, we have renovated the house, completely gutting the interior. We took the floors out, hacked the plaster off the walls. We even took the bloody roof off. And I still find bits of red glitter remaining. I imagine if there was a nuclear holocaust the cockroaches – or whatever creature it is that can withstand a nuclear blast – will awake in a post-apocalyptic world to find it covered in red glitter. Everything else having been confined to oblivion.

After Christmas, we took the wrapping paper to a barn, where I came up with a cunning plan. Anyone who upsets us during the year – and let’s face it, I’ve got Aspergers, that’s pretty much everyone – gets a present from us wrapped in red glitter paper. We wrap it outside, in the lowest field next to the river, and immediately put it into the back of my truck for carriage to the Post Office. The glitter doesn’t come within a mile of the house and we rub ourselves down with alcohol wipes afterward. It’s the gift that keeps on giving, and with 15 rolls still out there, we’ve got plenty to go round.

The Day My Secretary Turned into a Zombie

One aspect of Aspergers that should be entirely positive is our complete and total honesty and our willingness, indeed almost need, to be helpful. What could go wrong with that attitude?

Lots, as it turns out. Like being asked whether someone looks fat in a dress they are wearing. I realised early on that “Yes” often received an adverse reaction. It was completely and totally honest but clearly lacked that other criteria: helpfulness. So I modified my answer to: “Yes, but I wouldn’t worry as you’ll look just as fat in anything else”. To my bewilderment, this didn’t go down well either. Maybe I needed to show I cared. Demonstrating empathy is something we find hard. It’s not that we don’t care, it’s just that we always look as if we don’t care. Next time I tell someone they look fat maybe I should have a pained expression, like it’s a bad thing.

I once had an opportunity to bring all three criteria into play when my one-time secretary – we’ll call her Mary for all the usual reasons, like, that’s her name – arrived for work looking ghastly. I say ‘secretary’ but, in reality, I was too junior to have a designated secretary but Mary did my typing and made me a drink now and again. I liked her enormously and, despite her being several decades older than me, we always got on. So I was genuinely concerned when she walked in early one morning looking like she was about to drop dead of Ebola. Mary usually belied – what I thought then – was her advanced age and looked fabulous, so her current state was of immediate concern.

My initial reaction was honest, helpful and, above all, delivered as if I cared. “My God!” I almost shouted, “You look awful. What in God’s name is wrong?” Mary smiled wanly and sat at her desk, directly opposite mine. She resembled a zombie.

“Are you ill?” I pressed, “A disease? Has it been coming on long?”

Mary sighed and replied, “I was late leaving the house this morning...” Before she could finish, I cut her off.

“Fair enough,” I allowed severely, “but to arrive looking as bad as you do. You shouldn’t have even got out of bed. You look truly hideous and you need to take whatever it is seriously. Go home. See a doctor. Maybe an undertaker too. Best be prepared.”

At this point, a colleague walked over. He looked at Mary, looked at me, and told me not to be so unkind.

“Unkind!” I spluttered, “Mary looks as if she might die any moment and you say I’m being unkind. My God man, just look at her.”

He did. And so did I. Mary had taken out her make-up bag and was applying some powder to her face. She finished her earlier sentence...

“I was late leaving the house this morning… and I didn’t have time to put my make-up on”.

Make up? You mean… No! I was utterly flummoxed. I then proceeded to watch Mary turn from an extra from the Night of the Living Dead to the gorgeous individual we all knew and loved. Incredible.

But I wasn’t going to let it rest there. “You look much better,” I allowed, “But for pity's sake, never do that again. I can’t take the shock.”

And, to her credit, she never did.