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.
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.
LB and clothes. Well that’s been a bit of an interesting and insightful journey so far. Like his use of space (hanging out in the swing bin or sleeping on bookshelves), his choice of clothes has been unusual. Consistently unusual.
“Where was Steve Wright born, Mum?”
“Southend.”
“Why, Mum?”
“I don’t know. It’s just where he was born.”
“Where was Steve Wright born, Mum?”
“Southend.”
“Where does Steve Wright live now, Mum?”
“Central London I think.”
“Central London, Mum?”
“Yep.”
“Does Steve Wright wear glasses, Mum?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Has Steve Wright got a moustache, Mum?”
“Yep, I think so.”
“How long has Steve Wright been a DJ, Mum?”
“Wow. About 30 years now. He used to be on Radio One.”
“What’s Steve Wright got, Mum?”
“What?”
“What’s Steve Wright got, Mum?”
“Erm… DJitis?”
“Yes Mum.”
LB and ‘diagnosis’. Well that was a winding old road, with a few false starts (and ultimately a dead end). I knew there was something up from the first couple of months. He was way, way too good. So good (undemanding, placid, cheerful, smiley and happy to just watch everyone) but every so often, he would have random outbursts in which he was inconsolable. I used to ask friends if they thought there was anything different about him but it was always a giant ‘NOOOOOOO. Don’t be daft’… But I knew. Continue reading
“Hey LB! How did meal prep go today?”
“Not good Mum.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“I failed Mum.”
“Whaddayamean, you failed?”
“I failed Mum.”
“Why? What did you cook?”
“Kebabs Mum.”
“Oh, I don’t get it. What went wrong?”
“I didn’t have a skewer Mum.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“Dunno Mum.”
“So what did you eat for lunch?”
“Bits Mum.”
I got to thinking tonight about LB’s agency. I suppose this is because the work I’m doing at the moment is looking at the inclusion of people with learning difficulties in research. As usual, the research doesn’t bear an awful lot of resemblance to the experiences of people I know (including LB).
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Mum?”
“YEEEESSSS?”
“Mum?
…
“Mum?”
“STOP SAYING MUM ALL THE TIME. Whaddayawant LB????”
“Mum…Do you like Irish lorries, Mum?”
“No.”
“OK, Mum.”
The final birthday trip, before LB restricted the jaunt to ‘just you and me, Mum’, was a trip to the Tower of London. We set off, early Saturday morning, caught the coach to Marble Arch and jumped on the bus to the Tower of London. The bus was an old Routemaster with a conductor geezer standing at the back steps. Perfect. Continue reading
This morning I was desperate to go to the loo but couldn’t. Because I was waiting for the bus. The bus that isn’t a bus at all anymore. It’s now a car. The car that takes LB to school each morning. I can’t nip off to the loo because there is a risk that LB will open the front door if the bus arrives. The escort at the mo’ is a little person and I’m worried that our dog, who is totally intolerant of difference (I know.. the irony, eh?) may run out and nip her. So I wait. Continue reading
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