There’s a rockabilly party on Saturday night…

Readers may recall – though probably not – that I recently gave up my TV licence as a protest against the Government/BBC’s plans to remove free TV licenses from the over 75s next year. Annoyingly, the BBC mentioned on their radio news programme this morning that TV viewing figures are falling drastically, especially among the young. I imagined I was rebelliously depriving myself of something for the sake of a principle – now I discover I was conforming to some mindless Younger Generation.

Staring mournfully at the gap where the TV set used to be, I realise I used to use it to switch off, ie to become part of the mindless Older GenerationNow I am finding being at home all day quite hard work – all that thinking about stuff – all that What should I be getting on with now? TV was an excuse to sit still and do nothing. Or knitting.

I’ve been managing quite well with my collection of radios, each tuned to a different station – not being much of a re-tuner of DAB radios. I have one stuck on Radio 4, for the News and Woman’s Hour. I sampled The Archers (‘an everyday story of countryfolk’), in the hope that, being older now, I would suddenly be able to stand to listen to it.

I still hated it, apart from one episode when a character called Hayley was going round frantically demanding money from fellow villagers in order to solve her mortgage shortfall problem – telling them she was entitled to it. She was being so annoying and so manifestly and counter-productively foolish in her approach, and all in a fake rural accent, that I just wanted to slap her. I suppose I was gripped, but not enough to make me tune in to the next episode.

One of my other radios is tuned to something called Mellow Magic. I have always resisted anything with the word mellow in it, along with the words heart-warming and epic – but I tried it and was hooked. Basically they play all the songs you remember quite a few of the words to, that whisk you back to your past.

Another radio is tuned to Scala, which advertises itself a classical music station with a modern twist. I use this as background music for reading. I used to use Spotify for this, but was always worried that by listening online I might be using up a lot of data, whatever that is.

Most of the time it’s fine – film scores, sad tinkly piano music – but occasionally you are jolted back into the living room by something unexpected and truly ghastly such as the Dam-Busters March or Mars, the Bringer of War. It’s even worse when you’re trying to get to the end of a popular physics book which is proving beyond your comprehension. I used to read books that dealt with string theory, multiverses and spooky action at a distance, but I think my brain must have atrophied since then.

So, I just migrate from one radio to another. Now what I need is some kind of hooked pokey-stick, or series of long pieces of string tied to all the radio like reins – to take the place of the TV remote control.

Then there are the TED talks. Someone stands on stage somewhere in the world – Iceland, Toronto, whatever – and records a short talk about whatever they happen to know or feel strongly about. These talks are free to listen to and are useful if suddenly craving the sight of a human being moving about and gesticulating, as opposed to disembodied voices. You have to be selective – no point watching fifteen minutes of someone enlightening you on how to sell a million pink plastic water-jugs in one day.

That’s how I came to be watching a lady psychologist talking about deathbed visions. I think she worked in end-of-life care or similar. She was saying people attending at a death should not be surprised if the dying person was able to ‘see’ other people in the room, or even reached up to them. One person had regular visits from an old dog who had died many years before, and which slept curled up on a chair. The psychologist lady explained that visions would usually be tailored to the person’s cultural background, so people in different countries might see angels, or the Buddha, or the Hindu god of death. And children tended to see visions tailored to them – so one child told his parents that the children’s train had arrived at the station; it was time for him to go.

People also see dead relatives or friends, and have the sense that they have come to greet them from the after-world, and help them across. This set me to thinking – who would I want to come and meet me? At first I thought, nobody.  What dead person would be willing to go to the trouble of struggling into human form again, and go and lurk around at some windswept crossroads waiting for me to turn up? And then I thought, well it would be the ultimate poor sad me thing, wouldn’t it – turning up at the afterlife crossroads and nobody – not even the Devil – who I gather has a tendency to keep assignations at crossroads-es to collect the souls people have sold to him – could be bothered to be there to say ‘Hi’.

So I settled for Nan, who would probably be wearing her cardigan and her flowery overall; Sophie, a long-lost and much loved black and white ‘tuxedo’ cat, and Godmother. Godmother isn’t actually dead yet, but she’s ninety, so presumably she would be by that time. Unless, of course, what probate solicitors often refer to as The Under The Bus Scenario were to happen fairly shortly. I even considered Ex but then I thought no, he’d be tapping his watch saying You’re three-and-a-half-minutes late! Don’t you know that you are Low On My List of Priorities?

Who or what would you want to crowd around your deathbed, or be waiting for you at the crossroads?

rockabilly

There’s a rockabilly party on Saturday night
Are you gonna be there?
(Well I got my invite)
Gonna bring your records?
(Oh, will do) …

Mott the Hoople, Roll Away The Stone, 1974

3: Send in the clowns

Continued from 2: Supping with the Devil (technically, posted on 6/7 – you might need to use the Search box)

It should have been funny, and it kind of was, looking back. Looking back, I can recall the struggles and contradictions of that afternoon as Mum and I listened to these two monolithic men droning on at one another about politics or whatever, beneath the ’70s artex ceiling and ghastly pine wall-covering, giant mugs of tea at the ready: exhilaration, a rather spiteful kind of satisfaction, sadness, anxiety and loss. Part of me knew that Ex had got to win, another part couldn’t bear for Dad to lose. Ridiculously, now, I am reminded of battling silverback gorillas and David Attenborough. (Who can picture a gorilla without David, whispering reverentially close by?) And I recall that last scene in The Railway Children – Daddy, my Daddy!

After twenty-three years or so I screwed up the courage to tell Ex I was leaving. He seemed unmoved, relieved as much as anything. Not long after that the lady I usually refer to as My Replacement came along – well, she’d been ‘along’ for quite some time, I just hadn’t really realised. That was probably the most painful bit.

On one particularly memorable occasion , which I now think of as my Send In The Clowns moment, I had driven across to the small town where Ex still lived. I had an appointment to get my hair cut at my old hairdressers. I had not anticipated that there would be a carnival procession going on, and so had to park some way out of town and walk back in. As I was walking along the road I realised that he – and she – were walking towards me in the far distance, hand in hand. I suppose they must have been out watching the carnival. There was no convenient side-road or alleyway to swerve into, and in any case they had already seen me. I just had to pin on a gruesome attempt at a smile and keep walking forwards on the pavement, one foot in front of the other – and so did they, of course. I found myself feeling sorry for them at the same time as I was feeling sorry for me. It seemed to take years, and he couldn’t exactly drop her hand. I can’t remember another thing about that day. That one memory was enough to last me for ever!

Although most of me knows that leaving, even in middle age, was the right decision, some disconsolate little remnant continues to prowl around my house on sleepless nights mewling Where are you? Why did you stop looking after me? Why didn’t you come and find me?  Didn’t you love me? And I realise it is not just the lost wife crying, but the lost child looking for her father.

daddy

 

In the 1980s Canadian Sister, also ADD-ish, married a man who looked not so very different from Dad. He was very definite in his opinions, very clever, very competent, would brook no arguments, etc., etc., but they remained married until his death earlier this year. Now she rages at him, in his urn on the mantelpiece. He was supposed to be her shield and protector, and in return she knew she must do what she was told and never argue; she went where he wanted to go, watched whatever he wanted to watch on TV; pretended not to be embarrassed when he was rude to shopkeepers and Indian waiters, resisting the urge to apologise on his behalf. That was the clear bargain struck on a cold May day in a black old Northern church all those years ago, and he reneged on it by going and getting cancer.

I have been wondering what conclusion to draw, what ‘advice’, with the benefit of hindsight, I would give to my parents, or any new parents of an unconventional child. Of course I have no right to advise. If I had been able to have children or my own I’m sure I’d have got it just as wrong, and probably more so.

The fashionable motto is that all you really need to be is a Good Enough parent. I would extend that a bit – I think you can be a pretty bad parent and your child will still stand a chance or surviving, more or less, if only she can get what she needs from alternative sources. Which is an argument for old-fashioned rural communal parenting as opposed to the nuclear family, in which any evils are concentrated, hidden and likely to be perpetuated.

I was saved by Nan and Grandad who, by the most enormous stroke of luck, lived at the other end of our street. Nan walked along to see Mum most days, and I spent every Sunday from about the age of three along with Nan and Grandad. To start with this was because Mum and Dad were engaged in building their own house, with Grandad’s help, whilst expecting my sister at any moment. After that it just became a tradition.

Nan and Grandad had a huge garden with a cherry blossom tree, a swing suspended from an apple tree, a lawn full of daisies and buttercups, and all sorts of flowers and vegetables. They also had a smelly old golden Labrador, a roaring fire in winter, stacks of Woman’s Weekly and Carpenter & Joiner magazines, a bookcase full of pre-War hardback books, an etymological dictionary (my favourite) and a tiny black and white TV set.

Nan cooked great Sunday dinners. She washed my hair and I sat in front of the fire to dry it. I was included in whatever she was doing. We put down newspaper and polished a mountain of brass with Brasso and blackening yellow dusters; we picked mint for the mint sauce – she chopped it fine then I stirred it in a little pot with sugar and vinegar. We sat on the back step shelling peas into an enamel bowl whilst staring up at the sky.

Over the course of the years she told me about the recent War, and the War before that. She told me about my Great Grandmother Sarah and her own many sisters. She told me the facts of life, taught me how to darn a sock and sew on a button. She chatted to me unselfconsciously as if I was just another grown-up, or she was just another child. On those Sundays with Nan I was a relaxed, ‘normal’ human being, but as soon as I returned to the other end of the road I became once again the freaky “Prima Donna” or “You Little Bitch”.

In writing this it has occurred to me that Nan had the advantage of having finished bringing up Mum – who had many of the same traits as me – considerably more pronounced, some of them – less than six years before, since Mum married at nineteen. Mum hadn’t had that advantage.

See 4: Imagine

4: Imagine

Continued from 3: Send in the clowns

I was also saved by my imagination and, if you like, the weird alternative-brain thing itself. That was – and is – by far the strongest form of defence, less costly than human relationships, far more flexible/portable than a husband. I always had the ability to tune right out, and this happened automatically whenever I began to get bored or things got rough. When things got very rough indeed I used to practice Silent Singing, most often The Sun Has Got His Hat On. I had my own way of distributing my consciousness between several places at once. I disappeared into books and stories, daydreams and plans. Inside my head was something like the Holodeck on the Spaceship Enterprise – the entire range of alternate universes on demand – and I spent many aeons away on my holidays on distant planets.

Later I started writing poems and stories. I found out how I felt through the poems and learned how I worked and what I thought through the stories. Together they became my Voice. I didn’t fret greatly that little I wrote was ever likely to get published – that wasn’t why I wrote. Much later I came to understand that a poem written (or a song sung, a painting painted, a love loved, an experience experienced) is engraved on the fabric of the universe, and will never be lost. You may have forgotten all the words or lost the old envelope it was scribbled on, but the poem is still there: all is taken in by the All That Is, which is constantly Becoming, in us and through us.

My parents were pretty bad until I left home. Almost as soon as I did they became pretty good. They did what they could to support me through the trials of what passed for my ‘adult’ life, though I never ceased to bewilder and exasperate them. I relied heavily on them for company as Ex seemed to be drifting further and further away, and when I found myself divorced, as a middle-aged ‘teenager’, basically – I had to learn how to change a light bulb and get petrol – I was glad of their support. I think they loved me. If only they could have told me so when I was young enough for it to have made a difference.

I would say to parents: even if you don’t understand what’s ‘wrong’ with your child – even if there is no medical word for it yet – even if (he or) she seems uncomfortably different to you or anybody else you have ever met – even if she is neither what you wanted nor what you anticipated – try to accept and love – or at least appear to love – what you did get. It works both ways. Your child has absolutely no choice but accept and love you, even as you shout abuse and raise your hand to strike.

When you are many years dead, do you really want your now elderly child to remember in technicolour what it felt like when you slammed her head into a door, trumping any good memories – like the day you taught her to swim; those Stanley Holloway monologues that made her laugh; the communal singing in the car?

If one approach fails, try and think of another. Watch and listen to your new child, as you would a new and exotic pet: work out what she needs. If you can’t work that out, talk to other people and be willing to ask for help. Be kind. Be gentle. Be creative. Think about what you are doing.

Summertime…

Above: Shadow (girl)

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Missy (blind, girl)

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Kitten (girl, aged 23)

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Arthur

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George

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Poor Hugo, a Wild One who shouldn’t really be here. If I hadn’t wept all over the vet…

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Nicholas, the three-legged

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Hector, one of the Wild Ones, Pandy’s brother

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Pandy, Hector’s brother

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Mary, Martha’s sister

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Martha, Mary’s sister, who wanted to stay aloft

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Frizzle, one of the Wild Ones – the closest I’ve ever managed to get to her

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Sunshine (boy)

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Matilda

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Snoots (boy)

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Fifi

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William

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Henry

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Rosie

I eat Green Berets for breakfast…

Breaking news! Arnold Schwarzenegger is living in my washing machine.

Have you ever noticed that electronic gadgets and domestic appliances have accents? You’re not going to hear the accent just by opening the box, but you will hear it the first time you are forced to peruse the Instructions.

Remember when things used to come with big, chunky manuals in readable-sized print? Now all you get is a teensy-tiny white leaflet, mostly in foreign languages. I sometimes glance at the Serbo-Croat segment first, on the grounds that it will make no less sense than the English, assuming there is any English. Isn’t English one of the most widely spoken languages in the world?

Moving away from washing machines for a moment – to my Doro phone. Before I met her I’d assumed she would be Italian. Doro, Doro – sounds dark and sultry like Sophia Loren. She is designed for the the post-Pension, pre-Alzheimer’s market or, shall we say, the first-time or apprehensive user.

Welcome to Internet

What happened to the ‘the’?

Standard smartphones contain all sorts of clever stuff, but if you’ve never seen one before, have never heard of an app and have no idea that all those little round blobs are called icons and are meant to be clicked on, they can be intimidating. Doros contain all the stuff that standard smartphones do, but heavily camouflaged under giant primary-school lettering in bright colours, and very simple sentences that – confusingly – could mean almost anything.

Search
What?
Something on the internet.
What song is playing now?
Something in my phone.

Discover
What?
My phone
Around me
Something on the internet

Send
What?
A message
A contact card
A note…

It took me a week to discover that a message was the same as a text, and I still don’t know, or care enough, to find out what a contact card is.

In fact Doro is Swedish, or Danish, or Finnish, or Norwegian – one of those Scandi types, and she ‘sounds’, and in my mind looks, like the less beautiful one from Abba. I like Abba and deeply admire Scandinavians, but I’m not keen on Miss Patronising Snootyface Doro. Still, she serves her purpose, and by now I have worked out by trial and error where she’s hiding all the complicated stuff (so Granny can’t wreck the phone).

And this morning – another new friend. I discovered that my washing machine was voiced by Arnold Schwarzenegger. Did you know that Arnie was turned down to voice the German version of the Terminator, even though he did offer, because he’s Austrian and sounds to Germans like a yokel? It’s true. I heard it on Radio 4. Poor Arnie.

For months he’s been silent since I have failed to peruse the instructions. I did the usual 2-second scan once the uniformed delivery chappies had left, just to make sure they were instructions and not some form I was supposed to fill in. I only ever actually read instructions when things go wrong, and sometimes not even then. I’ve found I can figure out how gadgets work in less time by pressing buttons at random/semi-dismantling them, than by trying to follow the instructions. I’m not dyslexic, just unable to focus on any collection of words that bore, or might possibly bore me.

But this morning my empty washing machine was half full of drainy-smelling water.  I suspected this might be something to do with the plumbers having just been to fit the water-supply-cut-off-lever under the sink, which had involved cutting off the water, but I couldn’t be sure. I knew the time had come – just in case, I was going to have to tackle that oft-put-off task, draining the filter for the first time.

The filter and hose on my washing-machine are supposed to be cleaned once a month. They have not been because:

  1. I knew it would be a megastressful experience, and I am not good with stress;
  2. the filter/hose service compartment on the right hand side of the machine. I am strongly left-handed and could see that if I was going to manipulate any thingummyjigs and whatsits I was going to have to use my much weaker hand.
  3. the pump filter/hose service compartment is right down at floor level. I am not as young as I was and could see that to look into the pump filter/hose service compartment I would need to be lying flat on my face. How would I get up from there, there being nothing within range to haul myself up with?

Firstly I take the instructions upstairs to the printer and magnify the Cleaning The Filter page by 150% so that I can see it. I collect a few things I think I might need, plus a low plastic stool.

Unplug the machine.

The plug is at the back of the alcove behind the machine. The machine is huge, rather like its body-building resident, and I suspect I haven’t the strength to pull it out. Also I know from past experience that if you pull a washing machine out it instantly loses all its stability adjustments. Next time you use it it will attempt to flog itself to death against the sink or shuffle across the kitchen to have a chat with the fridge.

I turn off the electrics for the whole house at the junction box. Surely that beast can’t electrocute me now, even if he is still plugged in? Sitting like a milkmaid on the tiny stool I attempt to open the service flap using a coin or a screwdriver.

Nope, and nope. I experiment with a range of small crochet hooks. Nope.

I try a bigger, altogether meaner-looking crochet hook. It falls into two halves. I screw the two halves back together and tug with all my might. The flap comes open – in fact it falls off with a clatter – and the crochet hook falls apart again.

Inspect flap. Miraculously it isn’t broken.

Provide a flat container to catch water. What is a flat container? If something is flat, how can it contain water? I get a mug.

These could be big amounts. 

At this point, Arnold Schwarzenegger kicks in.

Zese could be beeg amountz!

What do you mean beeg amountz – enough to flood the kitchen? Enough to be contained in a flat container?

If it bleeds, ve can kill it!

Pull the drainhose out and hold its end above the container. 

The drainhose is quite small. I had been expecting something the size of Arnie’s… thigh. I hold it above the mug and remove the sealing plug. The sealing plug is, of course, rammed in there tight and difficult to remove, but I manage it.

Consider zat a divorce.

Smelly water starts dribbling into the cup. After complete drainage close drainhose and push it back into the machine. This is all rather distasteful. I am trying not to remember what it reminds me of.

Unscrew and remove counterclockwise the pump filter.

He had to spleet.

He refuses to spleet. The pump filter will not budge. I remember Ex explaining (probably for several hours) the difference between finger-tight and the other sort of tight that only people with whirly-machines or cast-iron wrists can achieve. Ex used to turn off taps that way: no wonder the washers were always perishing. This one has obviously been tightened by Arnie himself.

I go in search of my black and yellow super-man-size-industrial pliers…

You are one ugly motherf….er

…grasp them in both hands, brace myself with my foot and wrench. Yeah, baby! The pump filter gives way and stinky water gushes onto the kitchen floor. I had expected the very-much water to come out of the hose. It hadn’t occurred to me that the screwy-thing would contain so very much more very-much water.

I lied.

Clean carefully the pump filter. I clean-carefully-it, using a J-cloth rather than running water as specified.

I eat Green Berets for breakfast…

Yeah, yeah…

…and right now I’m very hungry.

Refix the pump filter and tighten clockwise to prevent leaks. Surely not. You don’t mean you have to screw-back-it clockwise having unscrewed-anticlockwise-it? And if you don’t, water will come out?

Close service flap. Before doing so I attach a stout piece of red garden string to the slot in the flap. Next time, I can just pull on the string. Why didn’t it come with string?

Hasta la vista, baby. I’ll be back.

1: A house divided

It’s been a long time since I wrote something the low-tech way, ie sat down at a desk with a potful of sharpened pencils and made marks on paper. My usual technique – since I become more distracted and impatient with every day that passes – is to ‘splurge’, suddenly and electronically. I get a wisp of an idea, a little ghostly thought-ette or two, log in to WordPress and permit some primitive part of my brain, in conjunction with my touch-typist’s – though now somewhat stiffening – hands, to do their thing. Then I publish it, fondly believing I have proof-read it. Then I spend the next three years spotting all the mistakes.

I am writing ‘old-fashioned’ in this case because I have pages of notes that just wouldn’t stop coming to me yesterday evening, and the end result is likely to be at least three separate posts. I can’t hold a train of thought over multiple posts – I have to write it, edit it and subdivide it. Bah! So tedious!

When I get to read back what the hands/primitive-part-of-the-brain combo has typed I am often surprised – amazed, even – to discover what I must have been thinking, and what I appear to believe, sometimes quite passionately. I get to meet me in these posts, and the me in these posts seems to have some sort of recognisable personality. WordPress is our rendezvous point: without it the inside of my head would be a kind of darkish soup, with kind of floating bits, the odd, unidentifiable streak of this and that, peered into in vain.

I could not express any of the years of passing thoughts, ideas and reminiscences to be found in Latourabolie (transl: The Ruined Tower, in case anyone is still trying to fathom it out) to anybody face to face. I either say very little – to the many people I don’t like – or ramble joyously and incomprehensibly – to the few people I love or feel at ease with. Occasionally these serendipitous excursions into word-salad and verbal diarrhoea seem to amuse my friends. Sometimes they even laugh out loud in the course of one of my epic, multi-digressionary stories or reminiscences, at least parts of which may be true.

Often they laugh at bits I didn’t realise were funny – or at least not that funny. Maybe they are less amused by the tale itself than the sight of me struggling to bring it to a sensible conclusion, hauling myself back from digression after digression, to just stop. Where would we be without friends?

So, to the subject of this little run of posts – ADD or Attention Deficit Disorder. I leave the ‘H’ out because that stands for Hyperactive or Hyperactivity, and I definitely don’t have that bit. I was never one of those mind-bogglingly annoying little boys who jiggle their feet, jump up and down and cannot remain seated for more than two seconds. My cousin was one of those. Boy was that little boy annoying! He was absolutely unbearable to be around. You just wanted to bellow at him – keep still, you little tyke! You couldn’t, of course, because he was a cousin, and a visitor. I believe he is now a somewhat successful almost-retired something-in-electronics, and owns his own company. The last time I saw him was at English Sister’s wedding. English Sister was the same age as him. He was trying to chat her up, despite the bridal gown and her being his first cousin.

I would guess my type is the ‘inattentive’ type, which tends to manifest more in girls. I did consider the possibility that I was somewhere on the autistic spectrum, preferably at the ‘high functioning’ end. We’d all like to think of ourselves as an Alan Turing manqué, wouldn’t we? I have, in the past, had the occasional full-blown meltdown when things got too much – usually, and appallingly, at work. I do have the dislike of interruptions to my ordered routine, and, to an extent, the obsessive interests – but it’s not enough I think, after exhaustive research, to make me properly autistic.

In any case, it is one of my ‘hunches’ that autism and ADD are  basically one and the same, which is why a lot of people diagnosed as autistic also appear to ‘suffer from’ ADD or ADHD. Much suffering is certainly involved, but these are not illnesses, or disorders. There is nothing wrong with us, we are simply not at all like you.  I predict that ADD will eventually be found to be an alternative manifestation of the same comprehensively different brain wiring that results in autism, the other side of the coin. Or – think of autism/ADD/ADHD as a giant pink cake, liberally sprinkled with ‘hundreds and thousands’ because, after all, it is a statistical kind of cake. ADD, ADHD and autism, both high-functioning and low-functioning, would be slices cut from different parts of the same cake, and sometimes somebody would happen to get two adjacent slices. If you think of it as circular rather than a stack of parallel lines, or spectra, it works better.

I have never been diagnosed and am never likely to be. A formal diagnosis would interest and cheer me immensely in that it would prove me right (See – told you so!) but it would do nothing to heal the distressing bits in my past. It wouldn’t provide me with thousands of pounds to sort out my bank account, make me young again or save me from my eventual fate, whatever that might be – so there’s not much point.

And I do believe – reluctantly – that limited diagnostic resources should be concentrated on children. Not that I like children all that much but they are the future, whether we like them or not. And a diagnosis could help a child make more of its life than I – old, undiagnosed and woefully misunderstood – have been able to do.

So, I have worked out from simple observation – may be wrong, of course – that ADD and  its annoying-little-boy variant, ADHD, both run in my family thus:

The ones in bold are or may be the ‘sufferers’, that awful word:

Maternal side:

Nan : Grandad

Air Force Uncle → annoying boy cousin plus two girl cousins

Mum : Dad

→ Me, Canadian Sister and English Sister

Paternal Side

Grandma: Grampa

Devon Aunt, one baby boy (deceased), Dad

I can’t exactly remember from school all that Mendelian stuff with the sweet peas and the colour combinations, but does this look like a possible pattern, geneticists? Quite probably, no geneticists read my blog.

This unseen (except by me), unrecognised (ditto) fault line in my family has been the cause of no end of problems.

See 2: Supping with the Devil

Gibbering Idiocy

I live my life in a state of perpetual, if thinly spread, fear, ie I tend to worry about virtually everything, a lot. Many a time I will wake in the middle of the night in abject terror over some future scenario that is almost certain to come to pass, and contemplating ever wilder and more impractical solutions. Unsurprisingly then, the other night, in raging summer temperatures, in the midst of a fierce thunderstorm I was suddenly jettisoned from a scary dream and into an equally scary wakefulness.

In the dream, brown, filthy water was cascading down from the ceiling of my house. This has actually happened to me twice before in this house, once thanks to incompetent plumbers and once because of a broken or malfunctioning something or other on or adjacent to the water tank. Sitting bolt upright in my dark and stuffy bedroom, I envisaged what would happen if – no when, for of course I am catastrophising – this occurred in the middle of the night.

The muppet neighbours with their trillions of friends and relatives and their million large vehicles would once again have parked a jeep/all terrain vehicle/Rolls Royce/army tank so as to obstruct my water-meter cover, which is out in the road. Either their big, fat, plebeian tyres would be right on top of the cover or their big, fat, plebeian car would be right over the cover.

If the former, I would be knocking on their door attempting to rouse them in the middle of the night. Their baby would wake up and scream, but naturally they wouldn’t: they seem immune to their own baby. (If only I was.)

If the latter I would be laid out full length among the puddles and weeds trying to reach under their vehicle to lever or heave up a metal cover which even brawny plumbers have had trouble with. Then I would be trying to wrench some sort of flooded underwater handle a quarter (or might it be half?) turn to the right (or could it be left?) in the hope that this would shut off the water.

I spent some time, bolt upright in the thunderstorm, hatching plans to prevent this scenario. I would, I decided, look on the internet for some sort of specialist traffic cone – preferably a blue and white one with Water Meter! Official! stamped all over it. I would sneak out there when, hopefully, the Muppets were not spying of me out of their front window, and place the cone over my water meter. Do not to park on it, Muppets. I then envisaged male Muppet coming round and lecturing me, terrifyingly, for – what? Something or other.

Either that or the (expensive) specialist traffic cone would simply disappear into Muppet Mordor – that heap of half-finished projects, wrecked garden, spare washing-machine drums, motorbikes, speedboats, dog poo and smouldering bonfires – never to be seen again.

Then I realised I could instead buy a small tin of luminous bright blue metal paint and sneak out there when they were not looking and paint my water meter cover blue. This would take longer to accomplish than the placing of the cone, the risk being that someone, or several someones, would emerge and ask me what I was up to – and laugh – but would have the advantage that they could not steal luminous blue paint, once applied.

By this time it was daylight, and plan C dawned. I could call a plumber and ask him to fit some sort of water-supply-cutting-off-thing inside my house! Then, if filthy brown water were to come gushing through my ceiling in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t have to throw myself upon the Muppets’ mercy at all – Muppets circumvented – I could just toddle down to my kitchen and turn it off.

The plumbers came this morning. It took them about ten minutes to fit a snazzy little handle under the sink and they charged me an awful lot of money – twice as much, apparently, because it is a Saturday. They didn’t mention that when I phoned them, or I would have waited till Monday.