The holiday

“Hey, LB. (Social care agency) rang today…”
“Yes Mum.”
“They said they’ve got a great holiday you can go on in the Summer. Five days at an activity centre with a few young people.”
“No Mum. I don’t want to go Mum.”
“Ahh.. it will be fab. Loads of fun and activities. You love the holidays you go on with school…”
“Who is it with Mum?”
“(Social care agency).”
“No Mum. I don’t want to go Mum.”
“Why not?”
“It will just be misery Mum. It will just be a bucket of misery Mum.”
“Well, Sue from (social care agency) is coming round in a couple of weeks to tell us some more about it.”
“I don’t want to go Mum. It will be misery, Mum. I just like lorries Mum. Irish lorries Mum.”
“Well, let’s have a bit of a think about it when we meet up with Sue.”
“I don’t want to go Mum.”


Has to be done today. In honour of my old Rosie turning up at 10pm last night as a Mother’s Day surprise. (Sob) After the shrieks and hugging, and after Tom had led Rosie up to her room to explain exactly how much of it he’d taken over for his stop motion films, we squashed back onto the settee (with the two dogs).

And it was lovely. So lovely to hear the kids chattering on together. Like the old days.

There is a lot of randomness growing up in a house with a learning disabled sibling. For years, there was a lot of terrible tantrums that could go on for hours and hours. These were so distressing for everyone, but from early on, the others seem to have learned not to moan, not to complain and not to say ‘What about me?’ There are too many ruined activities to remember really. Holidays cut short, days out that were a combination of military organisation and plain endurance.

Being on show in public is not something that many people like. But the kids have been in the centre of countless public situations where LB has berated people for (alleged) shoplifting, being ‘foreign’ or having some visible difference. Or just had a meltdown.

We went to White Scar show cave once. Britain’s longest show cave, one mile underground.  We put on our helmets (LB loves anything to do with emergency services) and set off in a party of about 20.  Our guide, a white haired cave enthusiast, led us along the narrow passages until we reached the highlight of tour; Battlefield Cavern. It was spectacular. The guide asked Rich to turn the light off as he was standing by the switch.  There was a collective “Aaaahhhhh…” as we stood on a wooden platform marvelling the glowing stalagmites and stalactites.  But switching off the lights was not a good idea.

LB started to quietly pray. Eh????

“Dear God, please get me out of this cave safely…”

We all looked at each other. A few people turned round to look at him.

Shh..LB. Shhhh now. Don’t be silly…”
Shhhhhhh LB…” hissed the kids, nudging him.
“God. Johnny English. Dear Johnny English save me, Johnny English…”
“…save me from the cave. Johnny English. HELP US. THE ROOF IS GOING TO FALL IN. WE.ARE.ALL.GOING.TO.DIE!!!”

Oh crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Things disintegrated pretty quickly at that point. Britain’s longest show cave and all that. A mile underground. “Turn the light back on!“, shouted the guide, as Rich scrabbled round trying to find the switch. Children started crying, parents got agitated, LB kept praying. Loudly.

It’s probably fair to say we got out of the cave in record speed. A cross between a fast walk and a jog. Parties coming the other way were forced against the wall, as the guide, followed very closely by LB (still calling for Johnny English), went into emergency exit overdrive.

Eventually we saw daylight. LB stopped praying and cheered up.

“Funny little lad,” said the guide, panting, “is he alright?”

Despite these experiences, they all get on brilliantly. There is an easiness to their interactions, in which LB has a central role. Even though he doesn’t always respond. They all demonstrate an acceptance and understanding that isn’t articulated or remarked upon. It just is.

And I love it.

Literally literal lives

This cartoon made me laugh my socks off because it brings back so many memories.  All those early pitfalls and unanticipated problems that spiralled from the tiniest bit of communication bijiggery*.

Like when Richy Rich took LB camping for a long weekend with some of the other kids. He was about five. Richy called from the beach on the Friday evening; all eating fish and chips, everyone having a fab time. So, so cool.  First thing in the morning LB got up and said “Home”. He’d camped. Job done. Continue reading

A commotion in the ocean

Sticking my toe back in the holiday thread. So many memories. Sigh.

Richy Rich regularly took a selection of the kids camping.  One time he had three of ’em, aged 6, 4 and 1.5.  On the Sunday, he took them to the beach at Highcliffe, near Bournemouth. They walked down the cliff path to the beach, dumped their stuff and ran into the sea. Instantly a big wave knocked Richy’s glasses off and swept them away.

Now Richy is like Vincent van Gopher without his glasses.  He can’t see squit-diddly.  This is not a good situation to be in with teeny tiny kids in the sea.

Continue reading

The H word.

Holidays. Shudder. Even the word makes me feel queasy.  Going on holiday was like taking a bunch of pups off to some new park, full of smells, the hint of the odd rabbit and plenty of trees to piss against.

Plus, of course, the real hounds who delivered their own brand of disruption effectively most trips.  (Little aside here to mention the infamous time that Stan decided to have a wee on Petey’s designer sweatshirt on the beach in Pembrokeshire. Sigh).

So a gentle, informative, visual start to this new thread…

1. Find space.


That’s it.