Wow. I am reeling. Seriously in shock.
We’ve seen LB onto his school bus (which is now a car) for years and years and years. I’ve lost any inhibitions about being seen in public (and we live on a very public street) in pyjamas, daggy dressing gowns, frightwig hairhead as I’ve waved him off. And he’s never once waved back.
“Ok, LB. I’m going to get the washing in and then we’re off.”
“Prick.”
“Wha? Whatdidyousay????”
“Per…prank Mum. I said prank. Not prick. I’m sorry Mum. I won’t say it again Mum.”
Back from work this evening and, as agreed with Tom, start investigating why Sims 3 isn’t working. The ipatcher keeps quitting before it installs. Yep. That’s what I’ve been told. And the challenge is on.
2000 scooter riders driving round central London after the ceremony at the Cenotaph.
I’ve mentioned Garfinkel before on this blog, in relation to old Chicken Bone Man and the extreme porn. (And for the geeky among you, here is a lovely conference paper about Garfinkel, space and the achievement of the ordinary.) I used to think having a dude like LB was like having a permanent little rule breacher. Now I’m beginning to think a bit differently.
I’m starting to think of learning disabled/autistic peeps more as unlikely ethnographers than rule breachers. Unlikely ethnographers of normality.
Here’s an example.
LB said he’d wait in the car when I needed to get some milk the other day. I rushed into the shop, bought the milk and walked back across the car park towards the car. I could see LB in the back of the car looking my way. I waved to him. Nothing. I did an even bigger wave. Nothing. I waved like I was in the audience greeting the return of Nelson Mandela from Robben Island. Not a movement. He just watched me.
“LB, next time I wave at you, can you wave back at me?” I asked, exasperated, when I opened the car door.
“Why Mum?” he asked.
“Can I buy some kroner please?”
“Danish kroner, Miss?”
“Yes please. I’m off to Copenhagen for a couple of days.”
“It’s going to be very cold then.”
“Blimey! In Copenhagen? Are you sure?”
“Well you’re the one wearing the thick woolley hat, Miss.”
My recent sleazyjet experience cropped up during a fireworks do last night and I mentioned how on both outward and return flights, rows of seats were ‘shut’ to passengers. There was no seat allocation but cabin crew directed us to particular rows. They said we needed to spread around the plane to maintain balance because there were only 60 passengers. They’d put down the table things so we couldn’t sit in certain seats.
I’m seriously starting to hate the T word. Trans-fucking-ition. Professionals (teachers, social workers, clinicians) drip it into conversations with big nods and concerned faces.
“We need to talk about transition,” they say, before disappearing out the door.
“How old is LB now? Mmmm… nearly in transition then.”
“I’ll make an appointment around seven months before his 18th birthday, so we can really start to discuss transition. But you should be thinking about it now.”
OK. I’m thinking. Think think thinkety think. Er. I’m struggling a bit here. What am I actually supposed to be thinking about?
OK. Cutting a long story short here as my tales of travel woe are boring me now, I lost my boarding pass at Gatwick on Sunday afternoon. A boarding pass the size of a house and bright orange. I unpacked my bag, retraced my steps but nothing. It was gone. Continue reading
