I don't always act like an aspie, but when I do...

This week, I had to be a grown-up. RT Teen wants to change his college course which, due to lack of choice locally, means also changing his college. So, on Thursday evening we traipsed through to Carlisle College for an open night to meet new tutors.

I'd worried all week about him changing colleges and by Thursday night was really existing in some other, lighter place. Courageous enough on the outset, but by the time I'd driven through to Carlisle, I seemed to have used up all my sense.

I concentrated hard on the driving, as I was at that stage of stress where you feel disconnected. We got through the city, parked up and then had to find the college. I was prepared (for once) and we trotted off in the right direction.

Like country bumpkins, we got stuck on the wrong side of a barrier and couldn't figure out where we were meant to cross the road. Eventually, we saw a familiar looking building (thank you, Google Street View!) and hurried over. Once someone had pointed out the large button with Press Here written on it, we managed to open the doors...

It was a big, open space with lots of glass and very hot. The open night was going to be in the foyer, which also turned out to be their canteen area and main thoroughfare. Tables and chairs everywhere, with very few labels and none of them for Art or Computing.

Oh dear. We sat down on the edges, looking like we'd been dumped and waited for enlightenment to strike. It didn't, so we started wandering around the tables, vaguely angling towards any tutors who looked Arty or Computery.

Finally, a sympathetic admin woman caught sight of my face and came over to help. She identified the non-Arty looking Art tutor and we were off!

It went very well, though RT can't join the Art course this year due to how much he has missed. The Art tutor loved his work and made all kinds of helpful suggestions. Then, at the end, I found myself rounding off with a meme.

Yes, I've spent so long online that I now speak in memes. This is kind of embarrassing even with people who know me, but seemed to delight the Art tutor, who thought it was very funny. It was; I slotted it in the right place and presented it with panache, but, looking back, I'd rather have just thanked him and wandered off, like any other mother.

Onwards and upwards and, by bothering the disinterested receptionist, we found the Computer tutor. He turned out to be IT Teen's old tutor, who jumped ship from our local college and went to a better working life in Carlisle. He followed the department head, also IT's old tutor, who did the same thing. He was quite surprised to finally meet IT's mother and brother.

We got on very well, talked about IT, made fun of his iphone while he wasn't there to defend himself and talked about retro computer games too. He was more than willing to have RT on his course, using IT's consistent enthusiasm for computing as a reference.

This was weird, as when both boys were small and going through school, each new teacher would look at mini-RT Teen and say something like, 'Oh, I expect you'll be a good, hard-working boy like your brother!'

RT was good and he could be hard-working, but mostly at home and not at school. It was always a shock to his teachers that he wasn't a carbon copy of his brother and was so good at making their lives interesting.

Funny that the same phrases still come out all these years later. Ah well, at least these days RT will be less likely to climb things he shouldn't or introduce himself to new people in creative ways.

I did resist the urge to meme with the Computer tutor but, unfortunately, heard myself describing to him how the Art department at our local college always made me feel like going in with a flaming torch to clear the air and liven things up a bit. There were other descriptive phrases, but he seemed to take it all well.

Also, and I haven't been able to get to the bottom of this, there was a certain lack of surprise when I was being 'eccentric'. I just dread to think what IT has said over the years.

So, there we are. We found the right way out of the building and the short way back to the car and both flopped into our seats like we'd swum the Channel. RT is to turn up on Monday for a trial day, then he can make up his mind about the course.

Readers, I have to tell you that the fog had lifted by the drive home and I was able to travel safely again, as well as replay all the things I said to both tutors, in alarming technicolour. A good sign is that, unlike at the local college, neither of them flinched or widened their eyes while I was speaking. Perhaps, this time, we have found the right place!

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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Always playing catch-up

Can you imagine me at twelve? I was a bookish child, glasses, quiet with a tendency to drift off from whatever was going on around me. My favourite things were reading, writing and sci-fi and other worlds were often more enjoyable than the real one.

At this age, my mother and step-father decided we were a Healthy Family and we would go Walking. Oh readers, not just walking to the shops, or down the road with the dog; not even walking, gently, round the local lakes. No, serious walking, with a rucksack, map and compass, sensible walking boots and, depending, camping gear (on our backs).

I remember enjoying buying the boots. My square little feet. usually so awkward in shoe shops, seemed made for the little square boots meant for serious walking. I took this as a good sign (note: I am no longer one of those people who trusts in signs).

And off we set, up hill and down dale! On every day off, come rain or shine, we'd pack our things into the car, find some godforsaken part of the Lake District and lug it all out again for the sole purpose of carrying it with us as if we were primeval man.

My main memory of these walks is watching as my parents vanished up the path ahead. The dog was already dancing along in front, insanely happy at all this exercise. My parents, in the fervent grip of Healthy Living, would set a good pace, rucksacks seemingly light-as-air on their backs and walking sticks angled gaily as we made our way through the hills of Mordor.

Me? Well, having torn myself away from my latest book (left, longingly, on the back seat of the car), I would be trudging along behind, my rucksack feeling like it held the pony we should have brought with us for the trip and my feet already hot.

Any sunshine was sent to blaze into my face, or make my hair sweat or as an early alert system for the midges who adored me. Any rain found the gap in my waterproofs, especially that sad and secret place at the back of the welly-boot where one drop of rain can feel like a waterfall as it passes down your leg on the way to your foot.

Any puddles masquerading as dry ground had been warned I was coming and any entertainingly deep holes, full of muddy water, also waited. Other people stepped lazily over swampy ground, foot to grass clump, with the ease of the mountain goat. My feet stood on the same clumps and the whole thing became like a scene from Labyrinth. I would not have been surprised if evil fairies leapt out and took me off for supper.

Throughout this tortuous experience, I would still be left behind. The back view of my parents, faces raised to enjoy the scenery, voices coming back to me, full of laughter, with the occasional wary look behind to see if I was still moaning as much as before (I was). No matter how much I protested, I was still brought out (we know you'll enjoy it) and I was always left behind.

I remember going up to a local beauty spot to see yet another waterfall (you can tire of them). The path was rugged and steep, you had to hold onto tree trunks to get up the hill and there were leaves and dead tree bark all over the ground. It was hard going.

Halfway up, as usual, my parents waited for me. It took a few minutes for me to catch up, then off we went. No time for me to have a rest, or even a breather. As soon as I caught up, they'd speed off again, up the rest of the hill. Then repeat, as they waited at the top just long enough for me to catch them again.

It always seemed as if I was catching-up but never quite making it. I had the idea that if I kept at it, if I was continuously subjected to this inhumane treatment, then I would become hardier and fitter, more able to deal with it and keep up to their pace.

It never did work out that way. However light they said my rucksack was, it always seemed heavy to me. No matter how fast or slow I walked, I was always left behind. If I walked slowly, they waited and then I got no rest as we set off again. If I speeded up, so that I was almost matching their speed (but never quite), they walked even faster, thinking I had finally got the hang of things.

The only respite was the picnic, which meant that me, my parents and the midges could all settle down for a bit on a bench or a rock and find out whether the tea had leaked into the sandwiches. Sometimes it hadn't and even burning my mouth on a tin cup couldn't take the shine off finally sitting down, dreadful shoes off and be-socked toes crying into the fresh air.

I've often thought back to those times over the years, partly to sympathise with myself, sometimes to sympathise with my parents for having to put up with my incessant and proficient whining. Mostly, though, I think back to it when life is getting away from me again, the rucksack heavy on my back, the way ahead full of grass clumps and swamp and my quiet solitude left behind somewhere.

Readers, it doesn't matter if we carry a light pack compared to other people - to us, it might be heavy and shift about unpredictably as we struggle to keep up. Having the right equipment doesn't always help either: what do the shoes matter if all we can think about is the sun in our eyes or the rain down our back?

Mostly, none of this is important if we are always left behind to walk alone. We might deserve it for being a moan, or too slow, or too lazy or just not willing to jog along with other people. Occasionally, we might be way back on the path because none of what we are doing suits us like it does other people.

For anyone who is ahead and always seems to be looking back, please wait for us and, when we catch up briefly, wait a little longer. Just because we are standing next to you doesn't mean we are ready to start walking again. Sometimes we need a few minutes to remember we are not walking alone and that you are willing to wait a while.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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Aspies, masters of the awkward question

I don't usually mean to be rude or even impolite. I try to be pleasant and respectful, even in the face of extreme provocation. If pushed, I'll be more likely to resort to unexpected sarcasm or pointing out (helpfully) how and why you went wrong. I'm rarely out-and-out bad mannered.

So, it often comes as a surprise when people react as if I spat on their foot. I mean it, this is as close an analogy as I can think of to describe the sudden backwards flinch, with the lip rising in thinly-veiled horror. I do want to be clear - I haven't spat on their foot, and if I tried, I would definitely miss.

What I have done is Enter Into A Conversation. I do often warn myself off this, as it ends badly or chugs along nicely, until I replay it afterwards and realise I had it all wrong and gave a strange impression (again). In trying to speak to someone in a normal way, I'll do what comes naturally: ask questions.

I'm interested, you see. If someone has my attention, they are already winning and if they are managing to keep my attention, the conversation can't be half bad. So it is only natural for me to want to learn more and ask pertinent questions. This is a compliment!

What I don't always understand is that the other person only wants to talk and not really interact. They want to tell me their news or carry on with their diatribe, without me butting in and stopping the narrative flow by being a part of the conversation.

Although I'll be asking a question that is wholly relevant, they often still see it as a burden to have to slow down and answer it before continuing. Or they wave it away and promise to come back to it (but never do).

I've thought about this and realise that it falls under the category of in-depth understanding: the other person isn't interested in me fully understanding their subject of conversation - they only want superficial understanding so that they can rattle on without me piping up in the middle of it. This means that me asking a question which requires an answer - rather than a rhetorical one, which helps the flow - is an awkward bump on the road which means they have to divert or slow down.

Their other issue is that if they do fully have my attention, I won't be put off when I ask the question. I must know the answer! If I didn't want to know the answer, then I probably wouldn't have asked. And if they don't reply, or fudge the answer hoping to throw me off track, then I'll come back, quick as lickety-split and ask again, assuming they haven't understood what I want to know.

You see, if I have a full conversation with someone, about a subject I'm interested in and know about, I love it if the other person asks a question. It shows they share my enthusiasm or want to know more. And I rarely get diverted for long from my subject if I'm really into it, so answering a question becomes part of the rich landscape of that whole conversation.

I'm not sure how I'm meant to tell the difference between someone who wants to have a proper conversation, or someone who just want to hear the sound of their own voice and use me as a convenient audience at the time. How do you know before putting your foot in it and asking questions they don't want to answer?

Also, the consequence of them behaving in this way is that if they don't answer my question, or they try to power on as if I haven't spoken, then I'm very likely to leave the conversation altogether, either politely, by developing a sudden (and inventive) excuse or just walking off.

Readers, it's not my fault if people can't cope when their audience departs to the bar, or out the back door or starts to pick up the first soft tomato. People should be more aware of what they are getting into when they invite an aspie to talk to them. Don't they know how risky it can be to perform to such a brutally honest and direct audience?

Well, if they don't at the start of the show, they certainly do by the end.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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Aspies have no concept of time

I'm generalising here, as I know I have no concept of time and neither does my aspie son, RT Teen. This could be a genetic glitch, sent to make our lives interesting, or it could be true of many other aspies too.

Now, let me get this straight: I don't mean just losing track of time, like when you're immersed in a pet obsession. That's different and everyone can do it. What I mean is, losing track of the years and having very little idea of when something happened, however well you may remember the event itself.

I regularly forget how long ago things were, no matter how many clues there might be. It doesn't matter what else was going on, I will, without fail, mis-remember the timescale.

Usually, I shorten it down and guess on a couple of years. This 'couple of years' covers anything from eighteen months (if we're very lucky) up to seven years, as my personal best. Most often, a couple translates to four or more years. If I remember something being last year, then you can predict that was a couple of years ago.

Anything over a few years ago and I really struggle. I can blend year upon year and remember an event being seven years ago when it might have been twelve, or bring it up to only three years before. It's very erratic.

When I'm working out these time-slips, I am actually trying to be accurate. It feels right when I guess the amount. I do think I'm close - though after years of getting it wrong, I'm not full of confidence.

I'm no longer surprised when I'm wrong again but I am sometimes taken aback by the scale of my wrongness. I will suddenly feel out of joint, as if I've been kicked off the tracks and life is skidding past me, with no way to slow it down.

People are exasperated sometimes when I get mixed up, but the most surprising reaction is how they feel about my shorter-term confusions. I have no idea why, but when I blunder over the timescale of a more recent event, say a few months ago, then the people around me are often annoyed

They seem to feel I should be more exact when it was a closer event, that my notoriously shaky grasp of time is somehow only appropriate to years and not months. I guess this is because it's more understandable to them to be confused about the years, as lots of people feel time speeds by as they get older.

What they seem to find maddening is my inability to even say which month something happened. It's as if I'm being personally difficult to them, as well as doing it on purpose. Like so many other facets of aspie life, they feel if I only concentrated or tried harder, then I could do it.

Readers, I have trouble remembering if something happened last week or three weeks ago - it really is all one to me. If a particular date sticks in my mind, then I'm kind of okay, but to be honest, I'll often remember the date for some silly reason and not anything intentional. For instance, I'll remember the date we ate ice cream in the park, but totally forget when I took my mother to the hospital (which is important, if I need to remember to take her again in a month's time!)

As well as people reacting personally, they also get aeriated when I lose track of how far away a future event may be. I don't know why they are so surprised - surely, if I forget what happened last week, then it's no big shazam if I forget how many weeks it is before the dog needs worming, or an appointment looms? Is this not why calendars were invented? Oh, come on, am I meant to remember the calendar too now?

I suppose what frustrates me is not just that I lose time, or let it slip away, lazily, across the smooth river - it's more that I am like this always: it is nothing new, yet it is treated as if it is new, almost every time I do it. I mention, frequently, that I will need reminders about things, or that I forget dates easily. Then, when I (predictably) forget a date and no one reminds me, my nearest and dearest moan as if I did it on purpose.

I think people need to get over it, or not be so forgetful themselves about my fecklessness. You either accept I'm going to forget and remind me, regularly, before the event, or you develop a mild personality and not get so worked up when an appointment sails past without a murmur from me. You have an aspie in your midst, get over it!

On a calmer note, I will add that I never forget the start date for the next series of my favourite show or the release date of a long-awaited film. Also, the cat's birthday is ingrained on my mind and so are the birthdays of at least five people in my close family.

You see, it's not a total washout, I just deal in different priorities. The passage of time is often a relative concept anyway; it's only the rigid and the right who decide everything needs to be remembered in the correct order - and look how much fun they usually have.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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But you should just know...

Look, can we get this straight, once and for all? Aspies are not good at taking the hint, especially if the hint is a subtle, physical one. So, imagine how much harder it is to take a hint that is being hinted, getting all hinty with you, and is then left unspoken because you're meant to be taking the hint!

If a person is upset with their aspie, it's so much better to say so and be specific about why they are upset. It is no good at all going round like an old piece of flannel, hoping your aspie will notice you're upset or, worse still, realise they are to blame.

If you're very lucky, your aspie will think you look a bit bored, as you haven't been laughing much lately, and perhaps suggest a game of Super Smash Bros Brawl to cheer you up.

At this point, the mood of the non-aspie, hoping for attention, takes a nose-dive as being invited to do something your aspie likes doing is a reminder that your silent upset has gone unnoticed and that the aspie is behaving in their usual selfish way by only wanting to do what they enjoy.

The aspie carries on, quite happy that life is fine and now knowing you can't be too bored or you would have accepted the offer to play a game. They forget all about your glum face and ask you when tea will be ready or immerse themselves in Super Smash Bros Brawl, having decided to play it anyway.

The upset, neglected, hinty non-aspie has two choices at this point. They can either explode, which would be messy or just tell the aspie what is wrong with them. Or, like a big silly child they can take the sulk to the next stage, still waiting for the aspie to know what is wrong. You'll notice there were three choices: really, I'm only giving you two. Do not progress to the next stage of the sulk!

In the world of non-aspies, many things seem to be Known. It's like there is this vast intranet club, connecting all non-aspies, feeding them vast amounts of secret information, which they feel is known to everyone. They don't realise they are closed off from the aspie world, connected with a lot of people but not to the aspie sitting next to them.

When something happens and a pattern of behaviour is followed, the non-aspie expects their eccentric, inventive, creative and awkward beloved to know, without being told, what to do next. If the non-aspie is ill, the aspie is expected to be sympathetic and look after them. If they are upset, then the aspie should know they are upset, by their behaviour and little things they say. If the non-aspie is worried about something, their aspie should be able to tell, without them having to be obvious about it.

Sometimes, aspies do know without being told. If you are being sick down the toilet for the third time in one morning, we are not stupid, it is kind of obvious you're not feeling well. It's unlikely we'll want to come and sympathise, but we will have noticed.

However, if you are feeling under the weather and a bit icky, don't sit there like Grandpop's sock, expecting us to link to your closed intranet and know you are ill. If we see you sitting there, do you know what we think when your sad, pale little face turns in our direction? We think, Gosh, best beloved doesn't seem to be doing much today, they must be tired. I wonder when tea will be ready?

If you are upset and mooch about, clashing pots and pans, slamming doors, generally making it obvious you are upset, do you know what we're thinking? Mostly, we're thinking what a great load of noise you're making when we're trying to concentrate on Facebook or sending an important email or getting past this tricky level in Great Grand and Grizzly on the Playstation.

If we hear the muttering and start to realise you're being a bit snappy, then we think you've maybe been upset by someone or had a bad day. It doesn't automatically occur to us that we are the guilty party, because if we were, you'd have said something: wouldn't you?

And if you're worried over something and hoping we'll notice so you can talk about it? Well, for heaven's sake, just say so! It's no good trooping past with a pained expression. If we do see your face, we'll just think you need the toilet or have a tummy ache and carry on with what we're doing. Again, if you need help, we expect you to ask for it, like we would.

It infuriates me to the jumping-up-and-down stage when other people expect me to Know things. I have come a cropper with this many times and it always ends up being revealed in the middle of some nasty row or silly snapping contest where I'm suddenly told that I know what is the matter and am then presented with evidence as to why I know.

The evidence often consists of something forgotten or that happened when I wasn't paying attention. I'm not saying the aspie is innocent in all these matters - often it is our fault, once we get to the bottom of it. But if people would just say what is wrong, instead of relying on silly conventions of behaviour where we are all meant to know the rules for unspoken communication, then life would be a whole lot simpler.

For the record, I do think it's appropriate to cheer someone up by offering to play a video game with them - it always cheers me up - so I think grumpy-groos could cut me a little slack and not use the offer of a game against me, along with my other wrongdoings.

Other aspies will have their own examples to fill in here, their own wrongdoings too. It's all relative, all individual, according to the aspie and their friends and family. What seems to remain a constant is the ability of so-called normal people to make the aspie life way more complicated than it ever needs to be.

As I have said before, if you need me to know something, just tell me!

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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The lecturing aspie

We've all been there: you say something offhand or ask a question and away they go! The aspie who lectures is often avoided second only to the aspie who loves to share their obsessions.

Many non-aspies think this tendency to lecture people is a part of being an obsessive aspie - it comes across that way, after all. To the outsider, the aspie in mid-lecture looks very much like the aspie in mid-obsessive monologue. There is the same bright gleam in the eye, the same body language, often the same mannerisms, all designed to make the listener pay greater attention and go away converted.

It might surprise you to know that aspies who give lectures are actually far removed from just sharing their obsessions. The difference between an obsessive monologue and an informative lecture are apparent if you look at the intention behind them.

The aspie who wants to share their obsession truly wants to convert you. They don't want to just tell you about their great love and its many wonders; they want you to love it too, at least as much as they do. There is a fervent expectation running through the aspie's whole being as they share everything they know about their pet subject.

The aspie who lectures you does so only for your own good, to help you or to save you from something. The subject of the lecture will be close to the aspie's heart, but more often from hard experience. They want to help you avoid their mistakes or learn from their triumphs.

The fact that a lecture and an obsession often come across as the same thing is a source of frustration in the aspie world. Imagine if you had to give a talk on fire safety, knowing that it could save the lives of your audience. And then imagine giving the talk while your audience tries to get away, talks over you, checks their phone, changes the subject or suddenly sees someone they know and tries to escape.

How would you feel, knowing you were telling them something important only to have them behave as if you were some mad bloke they met on the bus, with a ticket collection? It isn't good, is it, to have important information treated in the same way as your easily-dismissed obsession.

The aspie is seen as an inconvenience at times, to be humoured and guided away from their troublesome pet subjects. We know how it is. However taken up we are with sharing our obsession, we can still tell when you're trying to get away or not really listening. We just can't often resist the temptation to keep on trying until you see things as we do.

It is far worse, though, to have something important to share and be treated in the same way as always. Do you not even listen to the first sentence? Do you switch off as soon as we start to speak?Or is it the subtle change in our body language that tips you off and sends you running?

I've had the experience many times of trying to give someone information that could save them a whole load of trouble, money or hard-earned time, only to be dismissed or humoured, as if I was a five year old explaining how butterflies come from caterpillars.

Worse, sometimes the information is treated with derision or impatience, as if what I have to say cannot matter, because it comes from me.

I've reached the stage where, with certain people, I hold my peace and let them get on with it. I know I can help them, give them at least part of the key to solving their problems or advancing more quickly. But you do get tired of being ignored, you know?

So, don't be too quick to vacate the room if you meet the lecturing aspie. We might not be at our most scintillating in lecture-mode - it is possibly one of our most boring settings - but if you stick around and listen, you might find out something useful.

And like all good lectures, you should at least look as if you're paying attention, because you never know when we will be asking questions afterwards.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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The ungrateful birthday girl

You see the title? I'm warning you now: if you haven't read my posts on birthdays, Christmas and other special occasions, then you'll think I'm a horrible person when you read this. However, if you've ever felt like you endure special events, rather than enjoy them - especially if you're the special part of that event - then you'll know what I'm talking about.

With that out of the way, let me tell you that it is my birthday this week. I'm not disclosing this super-exciting information so that I'll get a flurry of good wishes or happy surprises, but so that you'll know I have an event coming up. Whether I like it or not, I will be the birthday girl.

Usually, this involves getting up early, opening presents, then waiting for my mother to come over so I can open her presents. Then I'll make her a cup of tea while she samples my sweets, sit there and be sociable with anyone else who turns up (you can't be grumpy on your birthday), then go out for lunch somewhere that everyone will like and carry on being sociable until it's time to go home and flop into a corner.

And all the while I am trying to summon the birthday mood. I love Christmas, but birthdays are really not my thing. I quite enjoy buying other people presents for their birthday - for myself, let it be a Hobbit birthday and I'll buy everyone else presents, so long as they don't come over and eat my cake.

This year is going to be a little different, though. My mother has been ill this week, and as IT Teen is also ill, they haven't been out shopping for presents. Having left it to the last minute, they are now faced with birthday guilt, as they envisage me sitting, like the last kid at the party, with no friends and nothing to play with (can you hear the sad toot of my paper horn?)

This means that if I want presents then either IT has to get better quick and do shopping for everyone, or RT Teen is elevated to birthday manager. Ahem. RT's usual role is to contribute to the cost of the presents, making the card and wrapping things up. He's never really had to go out and buy presents before.

If IT was stuck for ideas, he'd probably buy chocolate or sweets. If RT was stuck for ideas, he'd either come home with a sorry look on his face and explain, on the day, that he hadn't found anything, or maybe he'd buy me something wholly unexpected, that struck him as a good idea at the time. I'd never be completely surprised if I opened the door to a pony or my own mini-tractor with RT but you're just as likely to get a set of kitchen spoons.

On Friday, presents notwithstanding, I have to take IT to college and my mother to a doctor's appointment. She wanted to call somewhere to get my birthday present on the way home, but if it's a difficult idea to sit and open presents in front of everyone else, it's an even worse one to wander round the shop, helping people to buy them and still try to feel like it's a nice day.

Shall I tell you what I'm really hoping for this Friday? Can I be completely honest with you, please?

After I've taken my mother to the doctor, I want to come home and read a book, in peace, for most of the day. I'm ordering it for myself right now. I'm bound to get some sweets or chocolate on the day so I have this vision of myself, in solitude, just me (and two hopeful dogs), eating something nice, drinking tea and reading a new book. There, that's what I want for my birthday.

I really don't want to go out for my lunch, but the alternative is making my own birthday tea so that other people will think I've had a good time. I don't mind having a cake or having a ready-made pizza for tea as that's easy for me. I don't even mind if no one comes to the party.

Yes, to anyone who loves these special days, I am a horrible person. But to those of you who sympathise with the image of wanting to be alone, doing whatever you like, then you'll know where I'm coming from.

I don't want IT to be ill all week, I do want my mother to be better by Friday and I don't want anyone to feel I'm missing out on the celebration. I just want my book, the tea and the dogs for company. It doesn't even have to be wrapped.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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