Things That Run in Families. Like Haemorrhoids.

There are some physical characteristics that run in families. Aquiline noses, blonde hair, blue eyes. My family got haemorrhoids.

We never actually discussed this unfortunate genetic inheritance, of course, but there was always a tell-tale stampede for the padded chairs whenever the wider family got together.

When I first came into my birthright – what I like to think of as the family pile – I hadn’t even heard of haemorrhoids and I had absolutely no idea why my rear end felt like somebody was impaling me with a red-hot spike. I mentioned it to Vanessa, who suggested I saw a doctor. Ridiculous.

We eventually settled on her going to the chemist, describing the symptoms, and seeing if they had anything that helped. She came back with two tubes of cream. One said it was for haemorrhoids but on no account should it be used on a rash and the other said it was for a rash but on no account should it be used on haemorrhoids. Brilliant. So now I needed to know which I had.

I decided to take a look, which was not easy. I eventually found that by squatting over a shaving mirror and shining my angle-poise desk light in a low arc, I got a reasonable look. At first, I gave myself a God-awful fright since I forgot that my shaving mirror is heavily magnified on one side. But once I have turned it over to the side with normal-magnification, I was fine.

The only trouble was, this was the first time I had ever had a really good stare at my rear-end. It looked pretty red and raw but I had nothing to compare it with. This might be how it always looked. What the hell did a normal rear-end look like.

It was some days later still that I had my brainwave. Internet porn. There must be loads of naked rear-ends on there that I could carefully analyse in the comfort of my own home. There were and I did. For the record, it was a rash and it cleared up a couple of weeks with the correct cream. But, to this day, I swear I am the only person in the world who has put ‘Butt F**king’ into Google purely for medical reasons.

For the Love of a Fish…

When I was young, I begged and begged my parents for a pet. In the end, I got given a gerbil and, because they are better backed up by a mate (aren’t we all?) I got two. Both were females as having any more pattering of tiny feet was verboten.

I truly loved my gerbils. And they were the first creatures ever to give me unconditional love in return. At least, it was a lot closer to love than anything else that was on offer. My gerbils didn’t mind how odd I behaved, provided I let them out for a run now and again and kept their cage clean. Wish humans were as easy as that.

When they died, I buried them. A few years later, I accidentally dug them up again and marvelled at the delicacy of their remains. This was met by horror by my parents and, on the basis it could be flushed down the toilet when it was dead, the next pet I got given was a fish. It wasn’t quite so cuddly as a gerbil, and a run out of his tank meant the bath, but I got to love it nonetheless.

I called my fish Sylvester as he was not a goldfish but a silverfish. Tongue-twisting alliteration was something I enjoyed but nobody else seemed to. For the rest of my family, he was simply “the fish”. Now Sylvester was an incredibly long-lived fish and, when I went away to university, he was still going strong. In fact, it was a delight having him as it meant someone in the house was genuinely pleased to see me when I returned. He didn’t exactly show it but I’m not really into all that hugging business anyway so that was fine.

One of those weekends, I came down to breakfast to find my mother enjoying a slice of toast and a coffee. I nodded an acknowledgement and got on with finding myself something to eat. It was only then did my mother speak to inform me that the fish was dead.

He was too. Lying just in front of where my mother was eating. He’d obviously jumped out of his tank in the night. Maybe he thought he would go find the bath on his own, although I’m not sure he’d have managed the taps.

I asked my mother if she had tried to revive him but she gave a snort as if to say I should count my blessings she wasn’t eating him on her toast. It was then that I performed my miracle.

Peeling Sylvester up from the Formica worktop, and costing him several rows of scales in the process, I held my poor little fish in my hands. Then I took him over to the sink. I filled the basin, and put him in. I wasn’t too sure what you did regarding these resurrection matters so I merely span him around in the water and called on the Almighty to give him his life back. I must have been heard as, a few moments later, Sylvester started swimming around. I lifted him up, dusted him off, and popped him back into his tank. My mother screamed. The old bringing-the-fish-back-from-the-dead thing had clearly got her spooked.

Unfortunately, thereafter my resurrected fish went up in everyone’s estimation and, by the time I next came home, he had been requisitioned by the rest of the household. He now had a different name, a different history, and, most assuredly, had very little to do with me. Sometimes, when everyone else was out of the room, I’d lean over his tank and call “Sylvester”. He used to see me and flip over onto his back. It was our little joke.

Reincarnated or not, Sylvester (under his new nom-de-plume) was not immortal. One weekend I was informed that my beloved fish had definitely and finally gone. Did he have a burial worthy of his miraculous self? Or a cremation to match those of Greek myth? Nope. Flushed down the toilet was his end. But at least I wouldn’t be exhuming the remains.

An Interview with a Psychiatrist. A Vampire Would Have Been Better.

Readers of my last blog will know that I’m officially MAD – that’s the medical condition I’ve apparently got – which is slightly better than being a FRUITCAKE I suppose, but not by much.

As you will have read last time, I had dutifully been dragged to the doctor and been given some happy pills. For a week, I was marginally less suicidal, which has to be counted a success, until they slowly stopped working and I was back to my usual deadbeat self.

Vanessa suggested I saw a psychiatrist, who may be better able to help me than a general practice doctor. I told her, in no uncertain terms that, emphatically, unequivocally, I would not be seeing a psychiatrist. I raised my voice and flapped my arms around to emphasise the point – I always feel that helps. I told her there was categorically nothing in life I would rather do less than see a psychiatrist. If she insisted then it would be my cold and putrefying corpse she’d have to drag there. I was absolutely, totally, and unequivocally not going. Ever. Period. End of discussion. Don’t ever raise the subject again.

The next day we got in the car to travel to my appointment with the psychiatrist.

The clinic looked like a converted lock-up garage, although they had made an effort inside by dimming the lights to provide a relaxed ambiance (or perhaps it was to hide the oil spills). This meant that I couldn’t see properly to fill in the form they gave me but I took a stab at what was required and did my best. Vanessa took it back to the reception and, after a quick query that I really did have a postcode as a first name, we were called in.

Naturally, Vanessa left me the chair against the wall, furthest from the psychiatrist. Slick.

We started by filling out another form. The psychiatrist asked in which hospital I was born. Well, I went in as a foetus and had a bit on my mind when I came out, so I can’t actually remember. He suggested it was probably the Queen Margaret. I bowed to what I assumed was his superior knowledge and agreed. But then I realised that the only Queen Margaret I could think of was the consort of King Henry VI in the fifteenth century. It must have been a hell of an old hospital.

He asked if I did drugs. I thought that was sweet as I was feeling particularly tense but decided it was probably inappropriate in the clinic so declined.

He asked about the psychiatric history of my blood family. I said they were madder than a pack of loons in a wet sack. He pressed me for details of any medication they took. I said I didn’t know as they were usually confined to the funny farm when they were at their worst.

The psychiatrist nodded sagely and suggested I had a predisposition to depression as an inheritance from my barking mad family. “It’s in your genes”, he said. Naturally, I looked down at my jeans and concluded that this psychiatrist must be of the Freudian school.

He then asked if I had suicidal thoughts. I was going to say that it was the only thing that kept me sane but decided it wasn’t the best argument I could come up with.

He then asked me what I was looking for from him. I replied, honestly, that I had no wish to see him and had been dragged there, under protest, by Vanessa who thought he might be able to help. I was told afterwards that the slightly startled expression on his face was indeed a slightly startled expression.

He asked about the tablets I was on and, at their best, how they made me feel. He suggested, as doctors always do, that I use a scale of one to ten. I wanted to say 4.72 but decided it might be best to round it up to five. He then asked if I had ever felt anxious before getting depressed, particularly with my Aspergers. Only every day I’ve ever lived.

He then asked if I had a good social group. Er, not exactly. Friends? Er, well…. He asked when was the last time I saw people socially. ‘About 5…’, I said. He wrote it down. ‘Years’, I added. And there was that startled look again.

The upshot was that he gave me a shed-load more tablets. I am now on four different types of anti-depressant. I’m not sure what the record is but that must be pretty close. I asked when I might be able to come off them. He was tactful but the inference was: when I’m dead.

The last thing the psychiatrist said as we left the lock-up garage was that he eventually wants to get me anxiety free. Yeah, Doc, I’d like to see an elephant fly. But I don’t think either’s going to happen any time soon.

Going MAD, Quietly

Attentive readers will notice that it’s now July and my last post was at Christmas. I would like to say this is because I’ve been snowed under with all the fun things that I am told life can hold but, sadly, that would not be true. The fact is, I’ve been going slowly (and now entirely officially) MAD.

I won’t bore you with all the stressful events the last 18 months or so have brought. If nothing else, I’d then have very little to write about for the rest of the year. But, gradually and inexorably, they have taken their toll on my sanity and wellbeing, which, let’s be honest, wasn’t particularly peachy to begin with.

It started with a general feeling that life was not altogether as rosy as it could be and ended with a realisation that only a box of matches and several gallons of high-octane fuel could really sort out the mess that life had become.

I started to pay more attention to those adverts placed by emotional support groups. But when I saw a headline that said: “Feeling Suicidal – Get Help Now” I honestly expected to read the details of a rope-maker, or at the very least the address of a gun shop. But all it suggested was a chat on the telephone. Now, I don’t do telephones and I don’t do chats, so I did the next best thing and hoped it would all go away*.

It didn’t. It got worse. Eventually, and the deciding factor for me to call in the cavalry, was insomnia. I now entirely understand why sleep deprivation is a method of torture. It is not pretty. All those hours and all those thoughts. It was time to whistle up the 9^th.

I told Vanessa enough was enough and that she had to call one of those chat lines and get me some help. Instead, she decided to contact a doctor.

I vacillated about going for a while until, after one particularly sleepless night, I could take it no more. Vanessa made all the necessary arrangements – which included a lengthy and very frank discussion with the doctor of my myriad idiosyncrasies and quoibles – and we were off. The receptionist asked how long we wanted the appointment to be. I said 10 minutes. We were in there an hour.

I needed startlingly little prompting as I recalled the horror of the last year and a half. The doctor listened attentively with a few sympathetic interjections here and there. Somewhat surprisingly, she was still dry-eyed when I finished. Actually, she was positively elated as she told me I had a textbook case of Mixed Anxiety and Depression. That’s apparently a good thing. But I will leave you to work out the acronym of my latest condition.

So, I’m now on these great little pills that are supposed to make me happy. Sort of. They’re also designed to help me sleep. Sort of. But, best of all, they come with two pages of closely-typed side-effects, the worst of which seems to lead to instant death. Hell, if the anxiety doesn’t get me, maybe the tablets will.

Nevertheless, I am now the proud owner of two conditions that are mentioned in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (at least, in Edition IV they were). I believe that earns me a mauve rosette.

As for my new, and not entirely welcome, state you might wonder how I feel about it. In all truthfulness, I’m not exactly mad about it.

* I’m not advocating anyone else suffers in silence – far from it. If anything rings a bell in this piece, see a doctor or, if you’re braver than I’ll ever be, call the Samaritans helpline. It’s 08457 90 90 90 in the UK. I’ve since found out that even silent calls are fine, if they help.

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.

No Miami but a Whole Load of Vice

Sometimes, Aspergers can make something that is completely daft appear, well, completely sane. Like the time my friend Graham (yes, that’s his name) and I visited our local nightclub when we were teenagers. Graham was, as a lot of my friends were, a tiny bit autistic. I knew him from the school computer group. Enough said.

Knowing that our only attempt to breed successfully was to attend social gatherings, we occasionally visited the flesh centres that were the local nightclubs. By visiting a specific club - for which we were technically 8 years too young - we could commandeer one of its many darkened booths and, fending off the inevitable comments about our sexuality, slink back to the shadows when it all got too much.

Around the time we visited the nightclub, the television schedule was reeling to the phenomenon of Miami Vice. At least, mine was. Since I was fair-haired, had a face full of stubble, and tended towards pastel shades, I was Crocket. Graham, blessed with dark skin and a line of natty suits, was Tubbs. Yes, it was daft but read the first line again.

The evening we visited the nightclub, we were already in persona. Graham wore a soft grey chalk-stripe suit and I had more pastel on me than a piece of Degas art. Naturally, I wasn’t wearing any socks either. I drove the short hop from our sheltered countryside houses into the heaving metropolis that was our local town. I think we may have even stopped at a traffic light, it was that frenetic. All through the journey, we played my Miami Vice music cassette, recorded from a friend’s vinyl record. Oh yes. Not only were we vice cops, we were pirate vice cops. Could we be any cooler?

Actually, Graham decided that we could. There was the usual queue into the nightclub with a long line of people snaking along the pavement. We had to drive past them to park the car. Graham suggested that we lower the windows (I had fitted my car with electric boxes to replace the winding mechanism, which, to us, made it feel like we were on the space shuttle) and cruise slowly past the queue while playing the theme music to Miami Vice, extremely loud.

I pointed out that the theme music was at the beginning of the cassette and we were nearing its end but that was solved by pulling over some metres from the crowd and rewinding. I am sure a few people might have glanced over at the small red Vauxhall Nova blocking all the traffic while two flustered geeks furiously pressed the rewind button on the cassette unit again and again in the vain hope it might make it go faster. But they surely had no idea what was coming next.

With the first cords blaring out of the open windows (half-open on my side as the winding mechanism didn’t always work), we approached the crowd. Graham hung his arm out of the window as we had seen Tubbs do in an episode the previous weekend. He then came up with his second great idea of the evening.

“Mike,” he shouted above the blare of the music, “stick your sunglasses on”. I protested that I could barely see anyway with all the dazzling lights from the nightclub interfering with my night vision but Graham was insistent. It would make us look über-cool.

I stuck my shades on and, as predicted, all went immediately black. There was a tiny amount of light from the nightclub door and, in my increasing, and very literal, blind panic, I careered toward it. Graham, oblivious to our direction of travel, concentrated on simultaneously looking cool, while stopping his eardrums from bursting with the racket that was emanating from the stereo. I am not sure whether it was when we mounted the curb that I realised there was a problem or when people began screaming. Deciding that coolness will only take me so far in life, I removed my sunglasses. I had a line of people immediately to the left of my car, each of whom had been forced to flatten themselves against the wall of the nightclub when my car mounted the pavement. Graham continued to ham it up by shouting “Yo” to as many angry faces as he could.

I turned the wheel and my car left the pavement and re-joined the road. I decided to forgo the sunglasses whilst I entered the car park and found a space. I looked at Graham, who was beaming. “That was so cool”, he assured me. It took many years before doubts began to surface.

Meeting People…Twice

When I was a first year University undergraduate, I lived in a hall of residence. This was not nice but made partly bearable by having a large contingent of Chinese students about the place. Most couldn’t speak much English, which was fine by me, but those that could often shared something about their culture, which was great as it made interacting with other people educationally meaningful rather than completely pointless. Until that year, I honestly thought the Chinese word for “Egg Fried Rice” was “Number 42”. Apparently not but I can’t say I remember now what it was.

One weekend, Vanessa visited and, using the communal washroom one evening, shared the line of basins with a Chinese girl. She was a nice girl who had Room Number 26 or “Pork Chop Suey” in English. Anyway, making the sort of pleasantries that I am told are called for in such situations, they fell into a conversation. At the end of it, the Chinese girl said to Vanessa “I’m sorry but have we met before?” Vanessa demurred at which the Chinese girl explained “It’s just you all look alike to me”.

Vanessa found the comment ironic but, to me, it made perfect sense. People do all look the same. It’s not just facial features I can’t recognise with my Aspergers, but whole faces. For example, I’m a nightmare to watch a film with since, as well as spouting fascinating trivia about the film, its production, and events depicted on screen every two minutes, I cannot usually tell one actor from another unless they have a huge scar or only one leg. So I’ll be waxing lyrical about the enthralling habits of the white-tipped reef sharks that are just about to eat James Bond while checking with Vanessa that the villain on screen is the same Emilio Largo that Bond met earlier on the boat. If I am on my own, I often resort to reading the script just to know who’s who. I can just about cope with the Muppets but real people – forget it.

That has it’s downsides, such as the time when I started work in a large office during my mid-twenties. On my first day, I had resigned myself to shaking hands a lot and took comfort in the fact that nobody would expect to be hugged. I subscribe to the theory that while shaking hands is merely unhygienic, a hug is full-on assault. Anyway, I was duly marched along a line of tiny offices, each holding a man in a suit I was expected to greet cordially. I would stick out my hand, accept the transfer of goodness knows how many germs, tell the person with as much sincerity I could muster how glad I was to meet them and move on. It would have gone fine except that one complete Womble decided to move offices half way through. He started in the first office, where I duly shook his hand, then moved to the end office - my final destination. I did not notice.

I entered said office, leading what was now a considerable entourage as it seemed everyone in the entire organisation was playing ‘follow-the-new-guy’ in that gormless but friendly way people in large corporations or with frontal lobotomies are wont to do.  They immediately knew I had met the Charlie sitting behind the desk before. With my limited facial recognition – not to say the considerable stress of the entire situation – I did not. I reverted to form, thrust out my hand, and told him how nice it was to meet him. The entourage fell silent as he looked at my bacteria-laden hand with distain. “We met”, he said in a low voice, “two minutes ago”. It was embarrassing. I knew that. So God only knows the reason for what came out of my mouth next. “My word!” I said breezily, “You were certainly memorable”. He did not speak to me again.

Throwing a Strop is Better Than a Road Atlas

I once read that, when returning from migration, male birds find the exact spot of their birth whilst females return only to the approximate area. It made me realise just how similar we humans are to animals. When out driving with Vanessa for instance, if I navigate we find the exact spot, whereas if Vanessa navigates, the approximate area would be considered a startling result. This is why, for the past ten years, whenever Vanessa and I go anywhere – which isn’t often, I grant you – she always drives. I navigate.

This was not always so and, for the first decade of our relationship, the roles were reversed. I drove and Vanessa had a road atlas open on her knee whilst she gazed out of the window in the desperate hope that inspiration might strike. It was a good road atlas too; a very hefty hard back with street maps of every large conurbation and even pictures of the moon’s craters, although why they were there I never really worked out. Anyway, our arrival at a junction usually followed the same pattern.

“Which way?” I would ask.
“Er…”
“Left or right?”
“One of those”
“Which one?”
“Er…”

At this point I would usually grab the road atlas from Vanessa’s knee, prop in open on the steering wheel, instantly discern where we were, and head off in the right direction. Naturally, I was not altogether calm about sharing my displeasure at this run of events.

I think the worst was when Vanessa told me to turn right onto “the squiggly blue road”. That turned out to be the River Nene. Or when I pointed out that the reason we were heading the wrong way down a motorway was probably because she had the road atlas open upside down.

A few carefully selected words of disapproval – alright, a rant – would generally culminate in me throwing the road atlas from where it was propped on the steering wheel back on her knee. As it was so large and heavy, it made a satisfying thump as it landed. Only one time, it didn’t quite work out like that.

Dizzy from circumnavigating a roundabout a dozen times - as Vanessa had suggested each exit in turn until we finally hit upon the correct one - my navigator-wife decided to retrieve a mint from the glove compartment. She was leaning forward as I, busy finishing my pontificating about whether it would serve us both better if she rode in the boot, or even in a separate vehicle altogether, flung the road atlas in her direction.

The hard backed spine bounced off her head, ricocheted off the gear lever, and landed in the foot well. If she had ever had a brain cell capable of learning to navigate before that event, I had probably completely obliterated it with the blow. Despite my fuming, even to me, it was clear something radical needed to change. We couldn’t risk Vanessa sustaining brain damage every time we took a wrong turning – it was just too frequent an occurrence.

So I went out – that very afternoon – and bought a new road atlas with a soft cover. That way, if it ever bounced off her head again, it was liable to do a lot less damage. It took another six years before it dawned upon me that maybe there was another alternative…

Talking to People…In Queues

I have just read the guide to a literary festival near us and it states, under Queue Etiquette: ‘please talk to the person next to you’. It doesn’t actually specify whether the person you’re meant to be gabbing to is the individual in front or behind you (which could cause some confusion) but it was enough to make me vow never to go to that festival again. If some stranger is going to accost me in a queue and start to talk – well, count me out.

The only person I have ever spoken to at the festival in previous years was – appropriately enough – a world expert on autism, Professor Baron-Cohen. He had just given a talk and, as is the form at these shindigs, I was in a queue – mercifully without the new requirement to socialise – for him to sign his latest book, which I had just purchased (without the usual online discount) at the festival bookshop.

The queue wasn’t long but was incredibly slow. One person, with signed book in hand, whispered to those of us still queuing as he left the signing tent, “The Professor likes to talk!” He does. I hadn’t thought of that. At the last book signing I went to, I said one word, and that was my name for the dedication. What the hell would Professor Baron-Cohen want to talk about?

I began to get nervous. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. The queue shuffled forward and my hands started to go clammy. Perhaps I should just leave now and go home. But then, I looked at the hugely overpriced book in my hand and realised that, without a signature, I’d just wasted £7.99.

I began to rehearse in my head things I might say. ‘Nice to meet you’, ‘Good talk – I enjoyed it immensely’, and ‘I’ve actually got Aspergers myself’. Then it struck me: he was a world expert on autism. His life was spent researching people like me. He’d know exactly the pressure I felt having to speak to him and would understand completely if I wasn’t exactly fluent. End of problem. Except, then I thought: maybe I won’t behave like someone with autism and he’ll think I’m a fraud. How does someone with autism behave in these circumstances? Maybe I’ll come across as too cool and collected and he’ll think I’m an Asperger-wannabe.

The queue shuffled ever closer until there was only one more person before me. I noticed what page in the book the Professor liked to sign and opened my copy to the same page. That should speed things along a little.

Finally, I reached the signing table and the Professor smiled a greeting. At least, I think he smiled a greeting. I was looking at the wall behind him at the time. He tried to break the ice.

“Where have you come from today”, he asked.

“From the big tent”, I replied. And then I helpfully gestured across the manicured lawn to the location of the talk. I do realise now that’s not what he meant. I also added, although probably somewhat redundantly at this stage, “I’ve actually got Aspergers myself”.

Professor Baron-Cohen was kind, engaging, and extremely supportive. I even got his agreement to look at a research paper I was writing. And he signed my book, with my name. As I was leaving I did consider saying something to those still waiting in the queue, explaining the long wait they were enduring. However, as it wasn’t a specific requirement of the festival guide at that stage, I didn’t bother. But if you are ever in a queue at this or any other literary festival and see someone with sweaty hands, nervously thumbing a book, and glancing longingly at the exit, please remember the Queue Etiquette for Asperger People, and keep absolutely and totally silent.

My Dog Has No Clue. How Does He Cope? Terribly.

It was when he was a puppy that I realised Mabon – my huge, goofy dog – was either born with Aspergers or else he had caught it from me. That became apparent the first time I took him to puppy class.

Now Mabon had been to the vet several times already and loved it. True, he liked sprawling behind doors that opened inwards, meaning nobody could either get in or out of the waiting room during the duration of his visit but, hey, he was calm, relaxed, and chilled. So when it came to needles…pah.

After that, puppy class should be easy I thought. Well…for the dog. I was dreading it with the same intensity I reserve for a Sunday morning visit from the Mormons.

On the designated evening, Mabon poked his head through the door of the class, saw a ragged row of other puppies doing things like chewing the floor, defecating, and pulling the ears off smaller rivals, and dug his heels in there and then. Literally. He had splinters by the time I had dragged him to the far end of the timber-covered floor. Once there, Mabon sat under a table with his back to the room. That’s my dog!

It was only once he’d been pulled out from the table three times and lined up to engage in the first exercise that Mabon decided to make friends with the dog to his left. He did this by sticking his face into that of the other dog’s. He had his nose bitten. But hell, at least that was a reaction. So he did it again. And got his nose bitten. This went on. Now you might think, stupid dog, but, in truth, it was his companion at the other end of the lead – me – who should have probably taken charge and stopped his poor hound’s nose being lacerated. But I didn’t. So we both stood there like Muppets. At least I wasn’t bleeding.

First up was a sit exercise. I said SIT nice and loud…and Mabon looked at me as if I’d finally gone completely insane. Next, I tried DOWN. Mabon yawned. ‘Try to get him to play,’ was the suggestion from the instructor. She gave me a soft toy, which I passed on to Mabon. He took it in his mouth, turned, spat, and said toy went sliding across the floor.

We then tried walking on the lead past the other dogs. Mabon was completely terrified and pressed himself so close to me it was as if I was wearing dog trousers. The instructor was impressed and we became the demonstration models for walking to heel. This means we had to do it twice more until Mabon started visibly shaking and was allowed back to sit under his table.

To end the class, there was a recall exercise. All the other dogs were brilliant and returned to their owners like bullets. When it came to Mabon’s turn, he had to be dragged from under his table to take pride of place in the middle of the room, all on his own. He hunkered down and tried to look inconspicuous, which was a challenge considering he was three times the size of the next largest puppy. I was at the far edge of the room and, feeling as much unease as my dog, called his name. Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition. I dropped to my haunches and tried again. Mabon shrunk even lower. Some of the others at the class started to make encouraging noises. Even the dog who has torn Mabon’s nose to shreds was rooting for him. Mabon did nothing. I called him again and again, my voice taking on the urgency of someone with Aspergers who had suddenly found himself the centre of attention and did not like it. Just like Mabon.

It was on the fifth call that Mabon finally looked up at me with such a plaintive, pleading expression that I suddenly saw myself in his position…in the middle of the room…with everyone staring. How could I have done this to him? I did not call him again. Instead, I stood upright and strode over to him, my footsteps echoing around the now silent room. Reaching Mabon, I picked him up, turned on my heel, and walked straight out the door.

We did not go back.

Coffee Shop Selections

Like many with Aspergers, I hate being bombarded with choices. It usually means a change is imminent and change, like most things that happen in life, is usually bad. So, when I am out and Vanessa has insisted we go into a coffee shop and get something to eat and drink, the huge list of every conceivable beverage and tea-time treat known to humankind leaves me somewhat flummoxed. This usually means that I stand at the front of the queue with glazed eyes as the assistant behind the counter strenuously tries to help or, at least, to get rid of me. The conversation, such that it is, usually follows the same pattern.

Assistant: Is there anything you’d like?

Me: I don’t know.

We do a tuna sandwich?

I can see that; it’s at the top of the list.

Oh. I can recommend the fish pie.

Who for?

At this point, the interaction generally ends as the assistant cranes round me, rolls her eyes, and serves the person behind.

Vanessa, noticing my predicament, sought a resolution. Instead of leaving me at the front of the queue, she started to accompany me and try her best to help. The conversation, such that it is, usually follows the same pattern.

Vanessa: Is there anything you’d like?

Me: I don’t know.

They do a tuna sandwich?

I can see that; it’s at the top of the list.

Oh. What about the fish pie?

Who for?

Except that Vanessa, unlike the assistant, is not so easily dissuaded. She continues.

Vanessa: What about something to drink? You usually have green tea.

Me: I do.

So you could have one now.

I could.

And to eat. You usually have a piece of flapjack.

I do.

So you could have one now.

I could.

So I could get you a green tea and a slice of flapjack?

You could.

See? That was easy. Except that Vanessa has now gone even further and completely cut out the middle man – that would be me. Realising my very presence at the front of the queue is entirely unnecessary – I have, after all, never eaten anything but green tea and flapjack in any coffee shop we have ever been in – I now select a table while Vanessa does the ordering completely on her own. Except that, since I will only go into a coffee shop in the first place if it is utterly void of anyone else, selecting a table leaves me with another myriad of possibilities. Generally, I am still coming to a decision as Vanessa returns with the tray of food.

Vanessa: Where would you like to sit?

Me: I don’t know.

There’s a table in the corner.

I noticed that.

We could sit there.

We could.

Let’s do that then.

Peace and Tranquillity in a Greek Villa

At our previous house, we lived next door to some interesting people. There was an old woman who was so profoundly deaf that even I didn’t mind speaking to her. A couple where the woman was so thin and whose hair was so frizzy I once accidentally used her as a mop. A busy prostitute (actually, that didn’t actually turn out to be true as we later learnt that her boyfriend always drove home to his mother after sex – and people think I’m odd). And, finally, a couple with two large savage dogs who barked from when they were kicked outside as the husband left for work in the morning (exactly half an hour before the time I used to wake up) until he returned later that night.

One important factor of Aspergers (well, mine anyway) is an extremely low tolerance for sound disturbance. So listening to two dogs letting rip for twelve hours was not a good thing. I tried all the obvious solutions, like sending Vanessa round to remonstrate, but nothing seemed to convince our neighbours that there was anything unreasonable in their dogs making so much noise that a nearby airport complained. I even looked into getting a shotgun but unfortunately my honesty on the permit application – Question: Why do you want a shotgun? Answer – To shoot next door’s dogs – put paid to that idea. So, I left the country. I spent almost the entire summer travelling and, in the autumn, went to a Greek Island with Vanessa for some peace.

We chose a villa next to an olive grove with absolutely no near neighbours. We even declined the services of a cleaner, deeming it too disturbing. What we didn’t realise is that olives are valuable in Greece and, as a result, are closely protected. Generally, the owner ties a large vicious dog on a very long length of chain and leaves it there. Predictably, the dog barks and howls almost continuously. Unlike the dogs next door, however - who went off shift when their master returned in the evening - the dog in the olive grove next to our villa barked all night. Every night.

To make it worse, we managed to adopt a stray cat during our stay. That might not sound bad, but it was. Vanessa has a weakness for anything furry and helpless and this particular bag of bones and fluff that waltzed up to our villa one morning fitted the bill perfectly. We called him Arthur, although I was very strict about not feeding him…for two days, and then I bought a big bag of catfood at the shop in the nearest village. But I was firm: he had to stay outside at night, which he did, curled up next to a big bowl of Kitikat deluxe. Unfortunately, that brought every other pitiful half-starved cat in Greece to our door. Ignoring the slavering dog chained up nearby, they did their best to intimidate Arthur away from his food by hissing and screaming at him, while he wailed back in terror at the top of his lungs. So I now had a demented dog, who was manically trying to break his chain and go on a cat killing stampede, every feline within a hundred mile radius howling threatening war cries, and Arthur, who knew exactly where our bedroom window was, wailing with such force I thought his lungs would burst. Could it get any worse?

As it was, it could and, very shortly, it did. Vanessa, unable to accept that nature clearly wanted a bloody carnage outside our villa and, more to the point, Arthur was likely to be at the centre of it, tore out of bed and rushed outside. Her banshee-like scream at the gang of cats intent on disembowelling Arthur was so loud that even the dog stopped barking. For a blissful, glorious moment, there was complete and absolute silence. And then, everyone seemed to gather themselves and continued as before. So I lay there, in what was supposed to be a peaceful retreat, listening to a barking dog, howling cats, and a screaming wife. I was glad to get home.

Complimentary Tea at the Roach Hotel

I am not good with hotels. The change of routine and having to walk past a desk and say hello to a receptionist in an eastern European language is not my thing. So I try to offset my discomfort by insisting that any hotel I stay in is the pinnacle of luxury. I want to be able to do backstroke in the bath and to wrap myself in so many white fleecy towels that I’ll be picking the fluff out of the cracks for weeks afterwards. Oh, and I don’t expect to have to sell a kidney to pay for it either, which means I generally book late.

This led Vanessa and I to roll up at one super-luxury hotel having paid less than the local YMCA charge for a box. The receptionist raised an eyebrow at the price on the booking confirmation and told us that our room was not yet ready. That irritated me. I accept that it was still thirty minutes before the earliest check-in time, but really. What the hell to they do to the room that requires so much time? From what I can see, they shove all the detritus under the bed and fold the toilet roll into a point. I could do that in fifteen seconds.

Would we like to go into the lounge for a complimentary cup of tea whilst we wait? Well, actually, I was going to throw a fit about the room not being ready but if a complimentary cup of tea is available, I might have that first. I acceded to the receptionist’s suggestion. After all, at full price, the cup of tea probably cost more than we’d paid for the room.

Just then, a smartly dressed woman waltzed past leading a delegation of Japanese executives. ‘That’s our deputy-acting-duty-manager,’ whispered the receptionist as we were pinned against the desk whilst they surged past; it was like a rerun of Pearl Harbour. ‘Could be a big booking for us if they like the place’. Indeed.

Vanessa and I squeezed past the Japanese, who were now taking photographs of the toilets, and entered the lounge. It was suitably grand. There was even a rather overstocked cake trolley, although I was unsure whether our complimentary cup of tea also ran to a slice of something chocolaty. As it was furthest away from anyone else in the room, Vanessa selected a table close to the door; a fine choice.

Vanessa was just about to sink into the three foot of padded upholstery that passed for a chair when I noticed several small torpedo-shaped blobs on its surface. They moved. Cockroaches. I put out a warning arm to stop Vanessa from descending onto the chair and, with my other hand, whipped the offending insects onto the floor. This all happened just as the Japanese delegation came through the adjacent door to view the lounge.

I am not sure what the Japanese is for ‘cockroach’ but I am sure it was repeated a few times among the party. The deputy-acting-duty-manager was entirely silent. As for me, now that the seating was completely insect free, I sank into the luxurious velour of a chair and rubbed my hands with anticipation. Now, what about my complimentary cup of tea.

Deus Ex Machina: Why the Washing Machine Hates Me

Overall, I get on with most household appliances, except the washing machine, which hates me. Not only does it hate me, but it hijacks my time every opportunity it gets. Since I reason that I can have a shower in less than ten minutes – including drying time – I am at a complete loss to understand why the standard washing machine cycle needs two and a half hours to clean a few clothes. And it doesn’t even dry them. So I have it set to the shortest programme possible and then press the button for ‘quick wash’. It now takes half an hour per load. The washing machine hates this. It tries to prolong each cycle by rotating the barrel by a mere quarter inch and then stopping dead for what feels like ages. This means that you are never quite sure when it’s finished. Last week, it was silent for ages. ‘It’s finished’, I thought, but then hesitated. I waited outside the door and counted to a hundred. Then two hundred. Nothing. Silence from the machine. I counted to another hundred and walked in. And it moved a quarter inch with a pathetic sloshing noise and stopped. I swear I heard it laughing.

The fridge is the same but less subtle. It has an alarm that sounds when you have the door open for more than three milliseconds. There is hardly enough time to grasp a pint of milk before it makes a noise like a rape alarm. I got so sick of it I asked the company what the hell the noise was for. It is, apparently, to prevent me leaving the door open and warming the interior. Oh, is it. Well, last winter, when the temperature outside had dropped to minus five, way colder than the fridge, I dragged it outside on an extension lead - I actually did this. I then opened the door and, three milliseconds later, the alarm sounded. So the company are lying. The only reason for the alarm is to bug the hell out of me every time I want to feed myself.

Things might have been different if they had left the design of the fridge to an Asperger person. Like my microwave. When the food has cooked and is ready for eating a buzzer sounds – no surprise there – but a message also flashes across the screen telling me to ‘Open Door to Remove Food’. Pure Asperger. With my last microwave, that didn’t occur to me and I took an axe to the metal side panel and smashed my way in. Now I know to open the door instead. Absolutely brilliant.

Anyway, to return to the washing machine. One evening, I was preparing to go out. Not an entirely relaxed time for me but it was also the night I do clothes washing and, like any Asperger person, changing the routine was impossible. So I shoved everything in the machine and set it to wash in double quick time. The washing machine knew this and dragged everything out interminably. I needed to leave in ten minutes and it still hadn’t got anywhere close to finishing. I was beginning to panic; I still had to drape the clothes over the stove for them to dry even after the bloody machine had washed them. It started its quarter-inch-rotation-followed-by-stopping routine. I yelled at it to hurry up. It then drained a bit of water. I screamed I was due out in approximately seven minutes and twenty three seconds. It did another quarter inch turn and stopped. I feared I might have apoplexy and die. What an end that would be; a melted heap next to a smirking washing machine. No. It wasn’t going to beat me. Finally, and with three minutes spare, it stopped. At last. I tugged at the door. Nothing. Then I remembered the utterly stupid, pointless, and dire piece of engineering that is the child lock. It prevents you from opening the machine for two minutes after it stops. This is in case a child opens the door and…well what? It’s stopped for crying out loud. So now I have to stand there waiting whilst that smug git of a machine denies me access to my clothes. I was beyond furious. I counted two minutes in my head and tried the door again. Nothing. I completely lost it at that point and decided the time had come to show this jumped-up two-bit machine who was boss. In American parlance, I kicked it’s ass. Well, not it’s ass but the front of the panel near the glass. Immediately, the door sprung open and I noticed a big dent in the front of the machine.

Later that evening, I admitted to Vanessa what I had done. She took it well. Then she asked me what I would have said if she had hoofed an enormous dent in the side of a household appliance. I replied that I’d be furious. But that’s missing the point entirely. The washing machine does not hate Vanessa like it hates me. She wouldn’t have to.

Railway Hell or How Agreeing to Everything is Not a Good Idea

When I am out and someone approaches me unexpectedly, as with a lot of people with Aspergers, I sometimes find it very difficult to fully understand what they are saying to me. I usually get the beginning few words and the end few words but anything in between is noise. With most people, this doesn’t matter in the slightest as they usually garble incoherent nonsense anyway. Where a response from me seems to be called for, I tend to have a few stock replies and “Yes, absolutely”, seems to work in almost all cases. But not always. Let me give you an example.

I was recently at an industrial museum looking at a huge model railway set-up and wondering how anyone could be so interested in tiny trains doing loops around mock-ups of trees and cows that they could devote their sad little lives to building it. Odd. So when I spotted railway-nerd approaching, I dived through the nearest doorway. Unfortunately, it was to a private area. This did not deter railway-nerd who, it turned out, worked at the museum and was responsible for building the entire railway edifice.

“Do you want to see the workshops,” he asked, indicating the cavernous interior of the room I had blundered in to.

“Er, well, er, yes, absolutely.”

So he led me through and into railway hell.

Now I know that everyone with autism is supposed to be railway mad but I’m not one of them. True, I did enjoy the odd Thomas the Tank Engine story when I was young but my favourite was the book where they retired Thomas from service and bricked him up in a tunnel. That’s where I would have wanted to be if I was a train with a face. I must have been the only child who cried when he was let out. That left teachers thinking I was odd and this was later confirmed when I drew a detailed picture of the plumbing system to my home, starting at the toilet and ending at the sewage works. I like to remember that the assignment was to draw a picture of your house, which wouldn’t have been so bad, but I have a terrible feeling it was to draw a picture of your family.

Anyway, railway-nerd was busy telling me in intricate detail how they plan each model set-up before crafting it out of all the rubbish that sane people would throw away. He asked me if I would like to know how they build the platforms, “yes, absolutely”, the bridges “yes, absolutely”, the landforms “yes, ABSOLUTELY”. This was hard.

Several hours later, we had covered every aspect of model railway building it is humanly possible to imagine and railway-nerd had moved on to advising me how to build my own set up. A two-foot base board is where you start, apparently. By now, I was silent, wondering which of us would die from old age first. Finally, railway-nerd announced that because the museum was about to close for the winter, he had better finish but would I like a few magazines to take home with me? “Yes, absolutely”. It was a good job I didn’t have far to stagger to the car with the amount of paper he thrust upon me. He then asked if I fancied a coffee in the café as it would stay open if he asked. “Yes, ab…er, no, thank you.” His whole body seemed to slump. I needed a softer approach, “Er, I just want to go and see that model tram you have in that pit over there.” I indicated to a rusting heap of metal in a large hole with a sign that read, optimistically, ‘Tram’.

Railway-nerd let me go and I quickly found the fire exit and made a break for it. Unfortunately, my route led straight past the café. I pulled my hat low, raised my collar high and went past as fast as I could manage without actually sprinting. I had almost reached the sanctity of the car park before a loud voice sailed after me “Start with a two-foot base board now,” I froze, paralysed by the horror it would start all over again. What the hell should I do? In the end, I did the only thing that occurred to me. I turned, waved, and shouted back, “Yes, absolutely.”

Playing the Superhero in a Turkish Station

I’m in Turkey, at a performance of whirling dervishes, the mystical adherents of the Sufi tradition. Whoever arranged the evening clearly had a keen eye for the exalted and dignified nature of the dance when selecting the venue. Unfortunately, the place they chose was obviously double booked as the evening went ahead in a cavernous room off Platform 1 of Istanbul Central Station. It’s a good job I turned left when I arrived and not right or I would have been on the Evening Express to Ankara and would have missed the show entirely.
Four rows of chairs encircled a central stage with several large signs asking patrons to refrain from using flash photography during the performance. It was in English but to make sure other nationalities also understood the message it was repeated verbally, also in English but in a loud and slow voice. As everyone knows all Jonny Foreigners understand that.
So the evening started with a Sufi orchestra playing twangy sounds and wailing a bit. After what seemed to be a good few hours of that, the dancers arrived, dressed in white cloaks with big hats. They were good. Very good. And before long people in the audience were rising to take photographs. Then it happened.
Just along from me, someone used flash. Immediately, a large Turkish woman moved over to give the sorry miscreant a good kicking and remind her – in an even louder voice but still in English – NO FLASH!
Everyone tutted. Since the reprobate was American, she obviously protested her innocence at great length. Doubtless she’d also be suing for her later therapy bill. Whatever, Princess.
Then it happened again. Same result. This person also protested their innocence, pointing out that their camera didn’t have a flash. As if.
It was then that I decided to take a photograph. Carefully setting the flash to off, I was surprised when, just as I clicked, a large flash of light appeared. The large Turkish woman moved in, everyone tutted, and I protested my innocence.
My back was now up. I had been falsely accused. For someone with Aspergers, this is not good. Someone was going to pay.
It didn’t take long to work out what was happening. A woman with a large camera and an even bigger flash was prowling the crowd, waiting for someone to stand up to take a photograph. Then she would sneak up behind them and take her own with her enormous flash before walking quickly away to avoid detection.
Next time she did it I was onto her. As the camera flash alerted the large Turkish woman to come running, I whipped out of my seat and into action. Several people were between me and the woman. No worry; they were bowled to one side like skittles. By now I was calling to large Turkish woman to catch up. Once more person to fling out of the way and I had my quarry. I didn’t exactly grab her around the throat but, let’s just say, she wasn’t going anywhere. I waited for my cavalry to arrive.
The large Turkish woman duly arrived and dispensed the kicking. Hell this was good. It felt like Dodge City. Except that the entire room was now looking at me. Those nearest edged backwards and even the twangy music seemed a little higher pitched. Heck, there was even a tut. I smiled wanly and returned to my seat. We superheroes never get any gratitude.

Girls and Castles: Strictly In That Order

I have a friend called Dave. That’s not his name but it’s what I call him. When I first met him he was in a group where everyone was called Dave. Easy to remember I thought, except that he was called something else. I completely missed that but, by the time I had realised, it was too late to change.
Anyway, Dave, by his own omission, is a little bit Asperger. That’s probably why I like him immensely. One day, we decided to visit a castle together whilst our wives were… Actually, I have no idea what our wives were doing but they weren’t with us.
As we walked up to the castle, Dave was troubled. I knew this, not because of some subtle cue I picked up on instinctively, but because he turned to me and said ‘Mike, I’m troubled’. What a top bloke.
I asked what the problem was. He pointed out that it was a hot day. It was. Good observation. I moved on, but Dave still lingered. Clearly there was something else.
"The girls will all be in short things and skimpy tops", he groaned. I agreed but, knowing my friend like I do, I couldn’t see why this was troubling him.
"It’s just that, if there are lots of them in there", he said, gesturing to the castle, "I’m not going to be able to concentrate".
He went on to explain how frustrating it is when a pretty girl moved into view and he has to choose between looking at her and looking at the Norman masonry that had absorbed him up until that point. "I can’t do two things at once", he reasoned.
Good point. So we came up with a plan. We would first tour the castle looking at the girls in the short things and skimpy tops. This would be our sole aim and the sole point of our attention; the castle would be ignored. We would give this task twenty minutes. (We also agreed on a certain degree of subtlety and tact so we didn’t thunder round the castle like two bull elephants in musth). After that, we would ignore the girls - including any new arrivals - and concentrate solely on the castle.
We did just that. We paid our money and, for twenty minutes, enjoyed the, er…what was on offer. We then ceased that activity entirely, opened our guidebook, and viewed the magnificence of the castle.
Some thirty minutes after that, whilst Dave was still examining the outer entrance to the monument - there was a lot of masonry on the approach - a stunning blonde sashayed towards the castle and into Dave’s view. If you took the sum total of the clothes she wore, my underpants were bigger. He legs were long and her chest…well; let’s just say it reached the castle some time before she did. I looked at Dave. He was beaming.
"Mike, Mike", he called in a state of near ecstasy and positively swooning at the sight before him. "I think I’ve found the portcullis mechanism". And, having checked, I do believe he was right.

How My Wife Starved at a Gala Dinner

I’ve said before in this blog that the wilderness of the arctic north is my idea of a perfect place, where there is more risk of being eaten by a polar bear than there is of bumping in to someone who wants to chat. Most days, I’d happily take the former. But on this particular trip north, people abounded as Vanessa had accompanied me to a Winter Market in Lapland, which the indigenous people of the region have been holding for hundreds of years. Although not the same people, obviously.
The town has two hotels. We chose the one with a lake view, although, since the lake was buried beneath eight foot of snow, I am not convinced that should have been the deciding factor. Asking about dinner arrangements, we were informed that on the days of the market, there would be several Gala Dinners, with traditional food and entertainment. Sounded bearable, especially since the only other place you could get food – bar shooting something – was a dodgy Chinese takeaway called ‘Her Chop!’, situated in the town’s only bar.
There was also another complication. Some years ago, reasoning that it might be better for our health, Vanessa and I had become vegetarian. I lasted some five years before succumbing to eating meat again. My failure to last the distance was for two reasons. One, I was sick and tired of people, on finding out that I didn’t eat meat, saying ‘Oh but you eat chicken don’t you?’ and then having to explain that since chicken was neither a fruit or a vegetable, it therefore came under the heading of ‘animal’ and, for a vegetarian, that caused a problem with the entire not-eating-meat concept. Two, I became so emaciated that even my vegan friends were slipping piles of lard into my salads. The problem was that, with my Asperger mind, cutting out meat meant precisely that. I just ate meals with the meat removed. So I had no protein for five years and, by the end of it, I was clinically dead. Vanessa, on the other hand, stuck with it and, to this day, eats nothing that had either a face or a name. Except fish. But who ever named a fish? Except for Nemo and Vanessa isn’t about to eat him.
Anyway, the day before the first Gala Dinner, Vanessa suggested informing the hotel she was vegetarian and asking whether they would make sure there was something she could eat. ‘Nonsense’, I replied, ‘this is a Gala Dinner with Gala food. There’ll be loads of things you can eat. You’ll be fine’.
On the night of the Dinner, the dining room of the hotel was packed. Really packed. Vanessa again suggested speaking to the waiter about her being a vegetarian, but by this time, I was too stressed by the crowd. I quickly scurried to our allotted table only to receive another barrage of prattle from Vanessa about the food. ‘Look’, I said, pretending to care deeply about my wife’s nutrition when all I could think about was the heaving mass of people around me, ‘if it comes to it, just eat the vegetables. There’s bound to be bloody vegetables’. There were and they were served first.
From a pointlessly enormous platter, we each got a miniscule roll of mashed potato in breadcrumbs. It was the size of my little finger. I looked at the bite sized portion of vegetable and then at Vanessa. She scowled. ‘Don’t worry’ I said, ‘there’ll be more’.
There was. After a pre-recorded drum roll – they really knew how to crank up the atmosphere in that place – two men appeared, each carrying the end of a pole. Pierced upon the pole was an entire roasted reindeer. This was quickly followed by others. The crowd clapped enthusiastically. Vanessa blanched. And that was the meal. Piles and piles of reindeer meat and one tiny piece of mashed potato in breadcrumbs, which turned out to be undercooked.
I troughed away like it was the last meal I was ever going to eat, whereas Vanessa, in between glaring at me, pushed the piece of raw potato around her plate with barely concealed disgust. Realising I had made an error of judgement in not insisting that they provide at least one item of food for Vanessa that she could eat, I made amends by placing the uneaten half of my raw potato onto her plate.
Despite this magnanimous and entirely self-denying gesture, we did not go to any more Gala Dinners. In fact, the next night saw us at roll up at Her Chop! and order their meal for two. Of course, we had sensibly checked beforehand that they actually provided food Vanessa could eat, so at least we knew she wasn’t going to starve; but, as I commented to her as we ate our boiled rice, I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t done that before the Gala Dinner. It would have saved us both a lot of angst.

Parking the Car

Like many with Aspergers, I have a strong aversion to parties. Always have, except that when I was younger I realised that without going to parties I’d have no friends and this was, apparently, a bad thing. So, particularly at Christmas, I used to make an effort to go out and socialise.
Alcohol used to help – immensely actually – but when I learnt to drive I realised that I quite liked the freedom to leave when I wanted to, instead of when the designated driver had sobered up. This was usually well into the next morning.
Of course, driving to a party, especially at Christmas, left you open to requests for lifts. I said yes to everybody as that seemed the easiest thing to do, but then regularly found up to a dozen people at a time trying to squeeze into my tiny hatchback.
Driving to one particular Christmas party, I had the usual half dozen passengers all prattling away in the car as I struggled to find the Village Hall where that night’s festivities would be held. This stressed me – more than usual, that is – and I almost missed the entrance to the place, as we hurtled past in a daze of sociability.
I say hurtle but this isn’t strictly true. A half dozen people weighs down a car of that size and it was struggling to move out of third gear all evening. Nevertheless, what I did next was still ill advised.
Noticing the entrance to the Village Hall Car Park rapidly approaching on the right-hand side (and wanting desperately to arrive, leave the people-infested car, and get the evening over with), I swung the wheel hard right. The tyres dug into the asphalt and we lurched towards the entrance.
Except that, unbeknown to me, it wasn’t actually the entrance at all. The real entrance was around the corner on a side road. What I was careering towards was a gap in the row of parked cars that encircled the Village Hall. That wouldn’t have been too bad except that the parking area was sunk from the height of the road by two foot or so, with a concealed vertical drop leading down to it.
Even with the weight of seven people inside, the car launched itself over the drop and sailed into the space beyond. It was then that I discovered something else. When your car has all four tyres in the air, the brakes don’t work, no matter how hard you press. Still, at least my half dozen passengers were now silent.
After a rather graceful arc, my car landed with a sickening crunch and the tyres instantly locked. After an impressive screech and lots of blue smoke we juddered to a halt a good three inches before hitting the brick wall of the Village Hall.
At least we had stopped and, to my delight, the car was still working. With the continuing silence from my passengers I could at last relax and concentrate on selecting a parking space. Realising there was one behind me – the gap I had just flown through - I put the car smoothly into reverse gear and glided backwards.
Safely parked, I looked around at my still silent and now pale-faced passengers, some rubbing their bruised heads, and some looking as if they might throw up at any moment. I smiled demurely and, for some reason that now seems totally superfluous, added: ‘We’ve arrived’.