No High school, Musical or otherwise

We trundle in the semi light of early morning, never the best time of the day.

“Dark, dark, dark.”
“It is be night? When it is be day? Where is being dah sun?”

The move to Daylight saving has dire effects in some households. I remind everyone of the vagaries of time travel as we stumble and bumble our way to school on foot.

As we approach the traffic light I prompt them.
“Now don’t forget to say hello to the Lollipop lady.”

They gasp, suddenly alert and searching.

“Lollipop! Lollipop? Where it is be dah lollipop!”
“You know, the lady we see every day at the traffic lights.”
“Why is she called a lollipop lady?”
“Because…..er…….because she holds up a sign that looks like a lollipop. Isn’t she called a lollipop lady here?”
“Never heard that before.”
“Really? What do you call them here?”
“Who?”
“Lollipop ladies. Oh I know….er…….traffic…..wardens? No that doesn’t sound quite right either.”
“Crossing guards mom!”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
“Anyways…..I gotta have one.”
“Have one what?”
“A cell phone.”
“A cell phone?”
“Yeah, you know, one of those lil phones!”

I see her eyes roll and the world weary sigh of sarcasm.

“Maybe when you are older.”

It suddenly dawns on me, why I have tennis elbow when I don’t play tennis. I hold one small hand encased in a glove on my left. I hold the little frozen hand firmly, whilst the rest of his body sparks, hops and jumps with intermittent Karate chops and Pokemon battle moves. My right arm is extended out and cupped around my other son’s shoulder. My forearm acts as an anti-reversal guard and helps keep him propelled forward. It also serves as a parachute hook, to slow the fall of his next collapse. It's an unfamiliar posture for 58 minutes, once a day, for an old body to learn.

“But everyone has one!”

She lists her class mates' names, those kiddie winkies in possession of a cell phone.
“Didn’t you have a cell phone when you were a kid, or hadn’t they been invented.”

It’s not really a question, more of a put down.

I trawl my memory bank. I have vague recollections of actors on the telly, a phone the size of a house brick clamped to their ears and a yard of aerial whipping around like a fly fisher. Was that the 70’s or maybe the 80’s? What’s a decade anyway? “Yes, people had cell phones but we couldn’t afford one.”
“I don’t dance,” he sings as he stomps, coupled with a few soft shoe shuffles on a different beat, quoting from Highschool Musical II.

“Sheryl has Hanna Montana on her ring tone. It went off in class yesterday. We all heard it.”
“How delightful for your teacher.”

“Hey,batter,batter, hey battter,batter swing.”
“Don’t sing that!” she snaps
“I've go to just do my thing,” he continues oblivious.

“Hey,batter,batter, hey batter,batter swing.”
“Mom! Make him stop singing that! Anyways you’ve gotta phone now!”
“Yes, true.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Let me see……..your dad bought it for me when I was pregnant, for emergencies…..so…….that’s 7 years ago. There you go, if you can afford it, you can buy one when you’re 40.”

I wallow in the bath of smug, self satisfaction having defeated a ten year old. I bask for approximately seven and a half seconds, as we pass the Middle School, five minutes away from our Elementary school, when a car pulls into the curb. Pal jumps out of the car where they two pals squeal with girlish glee in a cloud of hormones. The window rolls down, “Hi Nat!” She leans over her older daughter’s lap in the passenger seat, just in time to attend her own Middle School.
I bend, “good morning.”
“You gonna walk home affer school?” the car engine idles.
“Er…..um….” Where are my worms when I need them?
“Coz I gotta get ma windshield fixed at one,” she taps the glass. “May not be finished by 1:15 early school pick up. I don wan her walkin home alone.” I look at pal. I look at pal’s leatherette booted feet with two inch heels, perfect for the catwalk. I am dubious that pal has ever walked to her own home.
“That’s o.k. I’ll be collecting them up in the car."
“Great! I’ll pick her up later from yur house,” she calls as she shifts the car into gear and away.

My house? I’m not dropping her back to her own home? How did that happen? There again, I could hardly drop her back to an empty house. We walk the last three minutes to school while my brain counts children’s heads, calculates how to slot seven children into my car and where to strategically place four special needs children in the milieu.

I should have paid more attention in math class or maybe game theory?

Today I am also over here at "Trusera" with "environmental factors."

Opening for Guardian Angel

I decide that for the time being at least, a benign dictatorship rather than democracy, shall rule in my American household.

I practice during the afternoon whilst she is away with her pal for a play date. When the telephone call comes from my daughter, as surely as night follows day, I explain that it not convenient for her to have a sleepover. I do not explain further nor add 'not here, not there, not anywhere, ever.'

Her demands border on the hysterical. I lose my footing in response to the ‘why?’ and flail with ‘because your father is coming home tomorrow.’ Oh course she remembers that his flight lands in the evening. I recall two things; I may be a wimp but I am also supposed to be the adult, so I revert to ‘inconvenient’ and stick to it. She negotiates a further hour of play date amid copious shovelfuls of whining, but she will return.

I already know that she is amassing her counter arguments to my objections. Whilst I consider that my objections are reasonable, I can already anticipate her rivalry. Better by far just to not become embroiled.

I would prefer her not to consume dinner with almost a full pound of cheese on a Family Size pizza topped with 80 slices of premium pepperoni. It's easy to remember 'all things in moderation,' but I doubt that her protestations of ‘only one slice’ are likely to be honoured without parental supervision, specifically my own parental supervision.

I appreciate that she is confident that she is immune to the silent father swilling beer on the sofa in front of the telly. I am partial to a drink myself and addicted to Law and Order once everyone is safely tucked up.

I have no doubt that she would willingly resist the temptation of all night U-tube, wouldn’t we all? Maybe she will help them install firewalls?

She is used to the issue of smearing. Surely their household and ours are all too similar, water off a ducks back to the hail and hearty youth of today.

Obviously she will happily entertain herself for several hours the following morning whilst the rest of the household slumbers. She’s more than capable of occupying herself with no adult eye upon her. She's unlikely to starve without breakfast.

It’s not any one thing that makes me uncomfortable, it’s the collective. I have a sudden new appreciation that the 'typical' can be so much more difficult than the 'atypical.'

I fear my holding pattern will be short lived though. I do have an alternative solution but I need to check it out with an etiquette guru, a Miss Manners of America. My alternative plan is to hire a baby sitter for the boys and accompany her as chaperon, sort of invite myself, so I can sit on her shoulder like a parrot, a very loud and colourful one.

But I hope I’m always open to other suggestions.

Origami puzzles

I grumble on return from the supermarket, silently. My son grumbles noisily. He protests at the outrageous art project at school, the one that inevitably involved paper, which sparked off a meltdown of gargantuan proportions. His daily paper report card provides graphic details of the horror that followed. It seems his dislike of paper and it’s texture has resurfaced with a vengeance.

I grumble over a different matter, one of the many problems of living in America, especially if you’re of Scottish descent. It’s the bargains that are the problem. In Europe you might get a penny off something if you saved fifty packet tops and promised to give away your first born child in exchange. But not in America. How can you refuse such offers, even if the fridge is already overflowing? It’s similar to the other shopping problem:- one individual cookie for 99 cents, or 50,000 cookies for $1.99? A nightmare for a penny pincher, slain by the special offer, self control buried in a deluge of cookie crumbs.

“Whatcha doin Mom?”
“Cooking dear. Shall I show you how to make Lettuce soup?”
“No thanks. Do you make this stuff up or do you ever have a recipe?”
“Make it up?”
“Yeah, all this weird food. I’ve never heard of anyone eatin lettuce soup!”
“No? France? Escoffier? Look at the computer, it’s on-line.”
“Oh…….dyou know we have enough fruit and veg to have a yard sale!”
“Hmm. I know what you mean.”
“It’s great that Lucky’s have that offer on again.”
“Hmm.”
“Like we have a free supper now. Free sausages, free lettuces, free bread, free spaghetti.”
“Hmmm.”
“Why are you hmming?”
“Well let’s face it, lettuce isn’t really high on anyone’s yummy list around here is it?”
“You eat lettuce.”
“3 Jumbo Hearts of Romaine! Each one of them is bigger than my head! I’m not a complete rabbit.”
“The sausages are the best!”
“Yes, true.”
“Bread?”
“Yucky sourdough.”
“I like sourdough!”
“Yes but nobody else does. You can’t eat a whole loaf all by yourself.”
“I could try,” she offers with enthusiasm just as her little brother arrives on the scene, “I am like!”
“What do you like dear?”
“Free stuff.”
“Yes everyone likes free stuff.”
“I am like.”
“What are you like…..I mean, what do you like dear?”
“Free stuff.”
“Which free stuff?”
“Free.”
“Which free bit, the spaghetti, the sausages, lettuce or bread?”
“Free tickets.”
“Tickets?”
"?"
“Oh mom, he means the money off coupons.”
“But they’re made of ………..paper!”























Lettuce Soup
Finely chop one medium sized onion. Sweat it in olive oil until transluscent
with dollop of garlic puree.
Add one medium sized finely chopped potatoe, leave for 15-20 minutes to meld.
Add a smidge of dried Herbs de Provence or few sprigs of fresh dill, flat leave parsley and Marjoram
Add a 1 litre of vegetable stock or chicken broth and wait for it to come up to a boil, turn down to a simmer
Add six large handfuls of lettuce one at a time until each one wilts
Whizz in Magimix / Cuisinart
Serve with a dollop of sour cream and garnish with any left over fresh herbs

Tip: if you believe that no-one will eat this, then skip the cream, that way you can tip it straight into the compost bin with confidence.
























Lettuce Soup
Finely chop one medium sized onion. Sweat it in olive oil until translucent
with dollop of garlic puree.
Add one medium sized finely chopped potatoe, leave for 15-20 minutes to meld.
Add a smidge of dried Herbs de Provence or few sprigs of fresh dill, flat leave parsley and Marjoram
Add a 1 litre of vegetable stock or chicken broth and wait for it to come up to a boil, turn down to a simmer
Add six large handfuls of lettuce one at a time until each one wilts
Whizz in Magimix / Cuisinart
Serve with a dollop of sour cream and garnish with any left over fresh herbs

Tip: if you believe that no-one will eat this, then skip the cream, that way you can tip it straight into the compost bin with confidence.

A bicycle made for several

I tidy, clean and fight laundry the day he is due to return home. I’m tempted to hurl everything into the hall closet, but as we are married to each other, he already knows that old trick. I curse my open plan home as doors are such a great disguise for mayhem.


I debate whether a single rose on the nightstand would be an appropriate gesture? Would his eye be drawn to the single bloom and glance over the bomb site, or is it just too sloppy? I talk it over with my daughter, hard at work on a ‘welcome home’ picture.

“I think it sounds very romantic. Is Dad romantic?”
“Er….?”
“What it is?” chimes in a small person.
“What is what dear?”
“Romantic?”

My daughter giggles, “it’s lovey dovey, kissy squishy that kind of stuff.”

Clearly I have been remiss in the birds and bees department.

“He is be like dah flowers like me?”

I reflect upon their father who doesn’t know his Pelargoniums from his Buddleia, “Well, he does like some flowers.”
“We can be choose his favourite.”
“That’s nice dear. What is his favourite do you think?”
“Daisy,” he says with authority.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it is be my favourite and we are be dah same.”
















Princess Daisy, from Mario's Gameboy

Intolerance - a snippet

We conclude that there are 4 potential restaurants that may earn our patronage today. Prior to any final decision making, I call one in particular, just to check.


“Hi, this is San Jose’s most premiere restaurant in the Bay Area serving find food to the discerning public, specializing in pasta and seafood in a family style, how may I be of service to you today?”

It’s hard to process the message, delivered at speed with a gasp for breath at the end.


“Good morning. I was wondering if you served fries please?”

I am careful not to allow the word ‘chips’ escape from my lips as it is unfair to confuse the foreigners. I keep it brief, as American’s dislike waffle and time wasters. I stop myself from havering over the use of ‘premiere.’ The pronunciation is so mangled it cannot be French, but I have started a new personal campaign, I shall not be picky about individual words. I shall be tolerant.


“Fries? D’ya mean French Fries?” she asks in a tone of American incredulity.
“Mais oui!”

My bad!

Try, try, try again.

Today I'm over at "Trusera" again, with another hint.

A pointer in the right direction

On a lovely tranquil weekend, I hope, I am over here at "Trusera."

Know your onions

The campaign to increase food intake and variety is wearing me out.

I foolishly decided that if we never eat the same thing twice, then everything will always be new, then there will be no safe harbour.

It is now a given that every mealtime results in collective squalks of horror.

He takes one glance at his dinner plate, clutches his throat and makes retching noises. I nudge the plate towards him, Asparagus spears, caramelized onions with crumbled bacon and a side of Dauphinoise potatoes. This child has to eat some, that child has to eat more and the other child just has to tolerate the food being on the table.

“I am hate!”
“You’ve never had it before so you don’t know if you hate it yet.”
“I hate celery!”
“It’s not celery dear.”
“What it is den?”
“Asparagus.”
“I hate Aspergers.”
“Not Aspergers, Asparagus. It’s going cheap this time of year.”
“Going? Where it is go?”
“Sold. The shops are selling it cheaply at this time of the year.”
“Cheaply? What it is dah ‘cheaply?’”
“Less dollars. More dollars is dear, less dollars is cheap, or cheaper or cheaply.”
“Why are dollars be dear?”
“Oh,….er…. ‘dear’ means expensive too. Asparagus is cheap because it’s seasonal. Remember?”
“Sneezenal?”
“Seasonal. In season. The new rule that we eat food that is in season.”
“What season we are?”
“Winter.”
“But it is sun.”
“That’s because we’re in California.”
“Asp…….is being a Winter vegetable?”
“Yes.”
“What it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Um the other…….the next season is being.”
“Spring.”
“Yuk! I am hate Spring moorer.”
“Why?”
“I am hate Spring vegetables moorer than Winter vegetables.”
“Which vegetables?”
“Spring rolls.”

Pass me the compost bin please.

Today, I'm also over here at "Trusera."

Terms of Endearment?

Early in the morning, my boys gallop around the house……..singing: “mega hot, mega, hot, mega hot, hot, hot” to the accompanying tune of William Tell's overture. I take note of the new ditty with irritation. I wonder how long it’s shelf life will be? On balance, it is no worse and no better than any of the other little refrains that emerge, flutter around for a few days or weeks, and then disappear without a trace.

My daughter and her sleep over pal are full of giggles and secrets as we slip towards the tween phase of development. Still in their pyjamas, they huddle in corners and give the boys their marching orders.

Frequently, I have no clue from where these phrases originate, which is probably slightly more irritating in the great scheme of things. It’s an indication of my own personal failure, that I’m not able to keep track of their lives; illicit trashy cartoons, stolen moments on U tube, subversion from school. They all mount up in a growing pile of parental neglect and corruption. If I were more vigilant, I should be able to stop time, rewind and erase all the little detours. Who is responsible for contaminating my children!

It is only several hours later, that my daughter presents herself to me with a Cheshire Cat grin plastered to her face.

“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“You now how I’m much older now?”
“Yes, indeed you are.”
“An I’m so much more mature?”
“Most certainly.”
“Well what would you think if I told you?”
“Told me what dear?”
“What she told me that he said about me?”
“Um…......?”
“She told me that this guy I used to know at my old school, well, he said I was mega hot!”
“?”

Maybe I’m worrying about the wrong two?

Wordy Wednesday – deep proprioceptive input

Ms. Wordy Wednesday is alarmed on arrival.
“Good grief Maddy! Is he o.k.? What did you do to the little chap? What is that huge thing on him? Or was it an accident? Is that a tooth brush in his mouth? Did he choke?”
“Um…where should I start? That big blue thing is a wedge, shaped like a slice of cake and we use it to do some amateur occupational therapy stuff.”
“Oh.”
“You’re right, that is a tooth brush, he’s cleaning his teeth, he didn’t choke and it’s not accidental that he’s under the big blue wedge, he did it deliberately, himself.”
“Um…..somehow…..that explanation doesn’t seem to help very much.”
“Sorry. Let’s start at the beginning. That’s my youngest one.”
“Ah, the one with all the extra raw exposed nerve endings.”
“Yes and the ‘don’t touch me above the shoulders’ thing.”
“Ah! So cleaning teeth must be a big issue around your house?”
“Yes indeedy. A very loud, screaming issue.”
“Actually, now that I look more closely at his face…….he looks quite happy!”
“He is. He’s found a coping mechanism.”
“A coping mechanism?”
“Something to help him cope with the agony of cleaning his teeth.”
“Yes, I know what a coping mechanism is, duh! I just can’t quite work out what it might be?”
“Do you notice a huge, five foot by 10 foot, blue wedge?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you! Yes I see it. How could I miss it, but how does it help?”
“Say you’re experiencing something painful, like at the dentist.”
“O.k.”
“Do you grip the arms of the chair or dig your nails into your flesh to distract you?”
“Yes to the former no to the latter.”
“O.k. how about during child birth?”
“How do you mean?”
“Did you grit your teeth, grind your teeth, grip something with a stranglehold?”
“Epidural!”
“Ooo you’re not helping today.”
“Sorry.”
“So when was the last time that you were in real pain?”
“Er…..when my son fell off his bike and we rushed him to the ER. I kept talking to him and reassuring him but my mind was racing. I think I must have said every prayer I know a thousand times.”
“Ah. Not quite what I meant but that still works. Your brain was in pain so you distracted it with something else, another activity by praying so you didn’t have to think about the other stuff.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Doesn’t everybody do that?”
“Yes I think they probably do, but sometimes they do it in other ways. For my son, deep pressure keeps him grounded, literally in this case. By having his whole body squished it helps calm him, so that he’s better able to deal with the unpleasant sensation in his mouth.”
“Maybe.”
“You sound a bit doubtful?”
“Well it’s not exactly portable is it? I mean how much does that……wedge weigh?”
“I don’t know, but it’s certainly heavy.”
“Not really a long term solution.”
“True, it’s temporary, but it’s his personal fix and now we know, we can make other adjustments.”
“Such as?”
“We have a couple of weighted vests that do the same job and a couple of other vests with Velcro that can be adjusted to give you that same feeling of snugness.”
“Snugness?”
“Yes, like you swaddle babies to calm them, or how your mum pulled the sheets tight when she tucked you in at night, or that heavy winter coat that always feels so reassuring.”
“So "proprioceptive input" is just a big word for squishing!”
"In this particular instance, but there's a lot more too it than that."
"Another time then?"
“Sure. Oh and don’t let an occupational therapist hear you say that! She'd have my guts for garters!”
"?"

Look into the future

“I be need!”
“What do you need dear.” When will he learn to reference back and give me a clue!
“I be need goggles.”
“Goggles?”
“No!”
“No?”
“No. I be need glasses.”
“Glasses?”
“No!”
“No?”
“No. I be need shades!”
“Shades?”
“No. I be need eye fingies.”
“Eye thingies?”
“No. I be need……binoculars.”
“Binoculars?”
“Yes.”

I look at my son. Four years ago there were several items, ordinary items, that he was unable to name.

The few that I particularly recall were television, microscope, binoculars and telephone. He refused to name anything that could remotely be called food. All of them were off his radar and therefore of no interest.

The expert tester encouraged him to point at the pictures he chose, the ones he was unable to name. He was unable to point at the pictures for fear that his finger tip might accidentally brush the texture, as paper was poison. Instead he broke silence and read out the fine print on the margins of the pages, their reference numbers and letter codes, a gesture that struck me as generous to a fault.


“Well, you know, I don’t think we have any binoculars dear.” They were given away, just like so many other things that were grouped together in the category of ‘boring,’ or in the alternative category of ‘items of torture.’
“Oh.” He looks a little crest fallen and I await the meltdown. Moments later he skips away, as happy as a lamb, or a sheep on speed.


He returns shortly thereafter, clutching a cardboard tube and dives into the kitchen drawer where his magical fingers tackle an ‘item of torture,’ the seleotape dispenser with it’s little serrated edge, the one sure to slash jugulars.

I step forward but he bellows me away, “I do it all my myself!”

And indeed he does!

“See! Ta dah!” he thrusts them towards me, less than an inch from my nose, “dey are beed super spy binoculars!”

I feel a little light headed as I watch him snatch them away, the binoculars of torture and place them over his eye sockets, the most sensitive part of his face. He hesitates and both hands quiver, his eyebrow arch to make more room until miraculously his vision is obscured by cardboard rings, surely the most superlative day in the universe.

In the bathroom, I step over the unraveled mounds of toilet paper, another mountain conquered.

sun - Small things

I notice that with spouse away, the boys do not come into the bedroom in the morning. Usually they bowl in together to announce their pull-up and bed status, wet or dry, at 50 decibels, twice over. Whilst he is away in "England," I am no substitute. I am left to slumber in blissful peace.

Nevertheless at 5:25 a.m. which is really 6:25 a.m. due to Daylight Savings, I am forced to quit my steaming pit and lumber downstairs to calm the screaming masses. Sunday is pancake day, all of them are on the cusp of malnutrition. I stick the thermometer in my ear before I greet them, just to check that I am keeping the fever at bay: 99.1, let’s keep it that way.

We meet and greet as I discretely pat their derrieres for more checking. Dang! More laundry. I shelve laundry duty and commence pancake making. I grab oranges, celery, carrots and sweet peppers, shout a warning and stuff them all through the juicer. I am no nutritionist but I suspect that they may collectively hide healing properties for pre-teens and their acne.

I am in everyone’s dog house due to a failure to use my executive function. We have two outstanding issues to resolve, they are in my pending file:- "dog," which breed, age and sex is the first matter.

The second matter is determination of the ‘correct’ age that youthful American womenfolk may shave their armpits. Strangely the second issue takes up far more of my working brain capacity that the former. I discover that I have no terms of reference for this issue. There was no such thing as a pre-teen when I was one. I had no idea who, if anyone, had underarm hair, as arm pits were never on display. I do know that if you can’t cut a slice of bread with a knife, you should not be allowed within fifty paces of a safety razor.

The pay off for walking to school was the possibility of acquiring a "dog." The household member who is not sold on the dog theory of motivation is currently in England, for another week.

“I just don’t get it!” she whines. “If we get the dog whilst he’s away it’ll be a fate accomplished!”

I look at my daughter. I keep a straight face. The boys burble quietly, "batteries not included, batteries not included, batteries not included."
“That would be very underhand dear. Daddy and I make big decisions together.”
"Bukugan sting! Bukugan sting! Bukugan sting!"
“So? Getting a dog isn’t a big decision, it’s a quick little decision.”
"Geronimo! Geronimo! Geronimo!"
"Daddy thinks it's a big decision."
“Well if getting a dog is a big decision, what about the other decision? Surely that’s nothing, a real no brainer.”

Her emphasis doesn’t escape me, but I let it ride.

I am struck by a thoroughly brilliant idea, prompted by a recent email.

“Tell you what!”
“What?” is the desultory response between gritted teeth.
“Your big sister will be back in ten days.”
“Really!” she perks.
“Yes. She’ll know all about that sort of thing. We’ll ask her what we decided when she was your age.”
“That’s no good! You’ll just do the same stupid thing you did with her!”

I bite my figurative tongue. I need to re-learn this skill and practice it for the next eight plus years.

“You’re right. I have a better idea.”
“What?” she sighs.
“You can talk it over with her. She’s cool. She’s young. Whatever she thinks is best is exactly what we’ll do. Deal?”
“Deal!”

I nudge the glass of juice towards her and deflect her chilled glance. My son gasps wide eyed and begins to sputter, “ you, you, you have….a magic…….an…….invisible…….ring on yur head!”

My hands instinctively fly up. Nothing.

“She’s got hat hair!” explains my daughter in a voice of dripping ice, tossing back a curtain of silky tresses. “Yur not gonna go out like that are you Mom!” It’s more of a statement than a request. I reach over for my baseball cap and ram it back on my head, “sorted!”

She steps away with the downwards head shake of those whose patience is exhausted.

I glug the rejected juice, slowly. In just over a week my first born, live child will return to the chicken ribbed, bosom of her family. My tree hugging, save a whale, worship the planet, no make-up, no nonsense daughter........... and we all know the number one criticism that American’s have about European women’s underarms! I place the glass in the sink, empty, it’s bound to be good for peri-menopausal, prematurely senile women too.

Truth or date? [part two]

It’s a simple mathematical equation. If it takes one mother 28 minutes to walk from A to B, then it should take three healthy, youthful, energetic children ….a certain period of time to get from B to A. I use my usual scientific approach, double it and add half of the original = one hour and fifteen minutes, give or take a heart attack.

I give the new campaign considerable thought to aid a successful and therefore self reinforcing spin. I invest in three pedometers and dig out three stop watches to appeal the numerate amongst us. I’m cautiously optimistic that I might be able to tap into the competitive nature of sibling rivalry although that might have hidden dangers.

I remind them of the goal with the assistance of a social story and logic. The goal is the possibility of adding a dog to our household. No hound will be bashful, it will require a daily walk. If no-one is able to walk except me, then the dog shall be mine. I hesitate over the ‘mine’ word as it is both banned and a trigger word, a dangerous combination. I take a back pack full of water, sun glasses, baseball caps, baby wipes and a front door key.

I am ready. I think?

I shuffle the last one out the door and lock it behind me. They tumble out onto the driveway when I then remind them that we are walking to school today at 6:45 in the morning. A deafening ruckus of protest is immediate from my landed salmon, slapping away on the concrete. I stand and wait. My daughter picks flowers as we wait and glance around for a neighbour count. I use the lighthouse technique, pour praise and attention on the one behaving appropriately. I set her pedometer and stop watch, fiddle with the controls and beam. We arrange her hair over her ears and the sun glasses. The sun glasses catch their attention. We spend a considerable amount of time on the drive way kitting everyone out with their new equipment before we are ready to take a few tentative steps in entirely the wrong direction, since nobody seems to be aware where school might be.

The first real obstacle is one that I should have anticipated, early morning sprinklers. As they sput into action, he bolts before the first droplet has spurted. I order my daughter to keep a safety hand on her brother, the leaning tower of Pisa, as I leg it into the road to retrieve sparky, a jumping jack of nerve endings with the blood curdling screams of the imminently dead. He flails to beat me off but he’s still small enough to be scooped. I slope back to the others and piggy back him until he’s ready to use his feet again. He’s ready quickly, as he strongly objects to being face to face with a back pack, an added bonus.

We make a motley sight ambling towards the school. Spaghetti legs, limp directionless bodies and tippy toes mark us out as rabble. My daughter pauses patiently with each meltdown. We have a remarkably calm exchange, almost conversational in between the screaming protests and collapsed bodies. It is slightly surreal to talk to someone, a pre-teen someone, whilst hunkered on the concrete with a brother who rolls too near a storm drain, ‘jail,’ or a brother who freaks out at a disfigured road sign or someone convinced that overhead cables are about to fall.

We do not talk about what is happening or who is doing what? She is unfazed and amiable, discusses breeds of dogs, possible names and which sex would be preferable. I fear for her future. What kind of person takes this kind of experience in their stride?

Both boys tell me at frequent intervals, how exhausted they are, although not in so many words, but when the school comes into sight, they both burst forth for a hundred yard dash to the doors. One hour and 17 minutes later, we have completed our first ever leg of the school trip.

We may have fallen by the wayside a few times, but we’ve all arrived in one piece. Now that’s what I call a trip.

Sinking beneath the Plimsoll line

I take a deep breath to calm the quakes. The message on the answering machine explains, another week, just to be on the safe side. I think of ways to explain this to my children, that their Dad is detained in England with other responsibilities, for 7 additional measures of 24 hours? If I don’t manage to talk to another adult soon, I shall be a complete basket case. I currently exist in baby sitter free zone, perfect timing.

I refuse to count the number of meltdowns during the day, as they are all experiencing considerable amounts of stress due to the upset in routine. Ten days of parent teacher conferences will mean short school days. Whilst short school days might be welcome to many children, to two other children they present as an illogical time bomb in the schedule.

My latest mantra is “No Evan!” a hasty mistake and sure to be repeated at school. In an attempt to stop them copying the growling tone of their pal at 50 decibels, I am now stuck with this new phrase in a perseverating cycle, by both boys, in the exact tone that I was trying to avoid. Why did I snap with a denial rather than lure with a distraction, again?


My 28 minute walk to school and their 55 to 95 minute walk home is making serious inroads into any available free time. As yet I have seen no improvement in their ability to sleep. The ability to walk is an A list life goal for people who may never learn to drive or may eventually live somewhere else, other than America. Even if they end up only walking to goal B, for bus terminal, we still need to keep working. We’ve avoided the cheaters of candy and tapped into another motivator, the promise to consider adding a dog to our household. How can we adopt a dog if no-one can walk the dog?

Intellectual lightweight that I am, I refuse to renege on my new commitment to "Trusera," if only because I may shortly be I need of their professional services. I am sure that there are a whole category of people who find constant stream of stereo Mario voices, phrases, noises and tunes to be delightful entertainment, sadly I am not one of them.

The prospect of another week of unrelenting responsibility requires a different approach. There is no point in assuming that I can play catch up during a quiet period. Instead I must stay on top of everything continuously, not perfectly but just enough to get by. A juggling exercise just to keep our heads above water. Not all the laundry, just the greater part. Not perfect homework, ‘merely’ completed, perhaps. I try and think of ways to cut myself a little slack in the system. Anything to pre-empt burn out. But which bit to drop? I do what I do during the day, daily, is in part motivated by the promise that at some juncture in the future, I will be able to touch base with my better half, someone who lightens the psychological load as well as other fringe benefits.

How can I engineer a little slack? I decide to arbitrarily and unilaterally shelve instant administration. If each child could wait more than a nano second for me to oblige them, I will have artificially expanded my work schedule. I determine that a more or less blanket policy is advisable. No-one will die if they have to wait 30 seconds for assistance with pencil sharpening, opening something or toileting. I shall mentally prepare for the fall-out, endure the meltdowns, remain calm and shove the ear plugs in a little deeper.


Coffee to extend and perk up my personal shelf life, or pot of tea to calm down?

I leaf through the mountainous mail, bills upon bills, junk mail in between reams of recycling. My hands are a mass of cuts, not from paper but the lacerations from hand holding on dangerous streets, where nail clippers are a form of torture. I whip out an "envelope," which contains a card, which contains a message, which gives me just the snippet of hope and strength to make it through until bed time.

It’s just like the Cavalry, who always arrive in the nick of time.

Myspace
Graphics- At Myspacejunks.com

Truth or Dare? [Part 1]

Forty plus years ago, I would walk to and from school every day with my sister. Twenty plus years ago, I repeated this routine with my own daughter. Currently with the present crop of children, walking anywhere is not part of our routine. I decide that I need to take stock and figure out why this should be?

The easiest thing to do would be to blame my two autistic boys who have strong objections to walking. What I like about this excuse is that there is a nugget of truth in it, or rather a tiny granule. They are autistic and they don’t like walking. Convenient though that is, the real truth is more inconvenient.

The first truth is that I have a genuine dislike of anything that could remotely be described as exercise. Exercise is in the ‘boring’ category for me. Not only is it boring, it is also generally time consuming, unproductive and expensive. Whilst I was happy to cycle to work for a decade, that actually saved commuting time, money, the planet and it was fun. Exercise bike’s and their ilk, are works of the devil guaranteed to numb the brain.



The second truth is that it’s really America’s fault and has nothing to do with me personally at all. I am quite blame free. America is a car nation. Anywhere that you might just possibly want to visit, is inconveniently located at least one car ride away. Anywhere else that you may not be quite so interested in visiting, but have to visit, will be located at an additional, even further, car ride away. The total dominance of the car mentality means that as often as not they forget to build any sidewalks.

A few years ago, I worried that when we visited England that I would have forgotten how to walk at all. I heard on the radio that a healthy bod should take 10,000 steps a day. A huge and daunting figure. I read about how old people needed to do weight bearing exercise to increase bone density. I bought a pedometer and stuck it on my waist band after I dropped my little daughter at pre-school as I still had the boys at home.

I was too busy to read the LED screen at any angle with splotched bifocals as I staggered around the house with endless hampers of laundry and carried one or other child or sometimes both, until mid morning. I briefly parked my pair of load bearing ‘excercisers’ in the baby swing and play pen respectively, where they commenced their vocal protest. I took a glimpse at the little screen, gave it a little tap and noticed that it read well over 10,000. I tossed it on the kitchen counter. I didn’t need to exercise, I needed a rest!

The third truth, is that I’m as guilty as the next person of taking the easy option. Even more years ago, I bought a double buggy or stroller, so that we could enjoy fresh air. We would not remain prisoners in our own home. I suspect that the fault lay in the buggy design, in that the children faced forwards whilst I pushed from behind. Maybe it was because they couldn’t see me but whatever it was, the mayhem and hysteria that ensured poured icy water on my plans, and that was before the rainy season.

Only two years ago I tried. We walked from parked car to school, for an evening function. After less than ten paces they collapsed on the ground screaming like banshees, rolling on the lawn and kicking the concrete. The homeowner peeked out from behind the curtain as surely I had beaten them with a burnt stick?

Now I am faced with the reality of my sloppy ways, a collection of children completely incapable of walking more than 9 yards outside their own home. We are in dire need of remedial action. They still have no traffic sense, which means that every road is a danger. They’re never going to acquire any traffic sense if they’re never exposed. I decide to pose as a walker and expose my psyche to a new campaign of torture, for all of us for different reasons.

In theory it should be easy. I think of the one thing that they have continuously hated since time immemorial, car journeys. Surely this is the most obvious solution. Hate the car, then avoid it and walk! To be fair I know that it is mainly the ‘transition’ to the car rather than the car ride itself, but it still have a crumb of logic in there somewhere, doesn’t it?

The initial campaign will be to walk home from school every day. I make a dry run. Two point two miles as a leisurely pace. 22 minutes of stroll, on my own, including traffic light pauses. As I walk I realize that we won’t be able to walk on Wednesday because of double therapy. We won’t be able to walk on Fridays when the triple play dates take place. 3 walks a week seems both pathetic and Herculean at the same time.

My brain flips back and forth between the two options, with little spikes of terror as I see the uneven path, the sprinklers, the trash, an infinite number of road signs to read and the occasional dog and owner. The more I walk, the more hic-cups I see both on the horizon and beneath my tatty shoes. The temperature is in the 70’s in March. In a short while, it will be too hot to walk around outside during the day. I’ll need to take sunglasses, baseball caps, water bottles and sunscreen. Sunscreen! Just the thought of sunscreen is enough to give me an attack of the vapours.

Which two additional adults could I bribe to accompany us? Someone to guard each little body, especially the ‘easily collapsible’ one and the ‘likely to spin off and bolt like a fire-cracker’ one. Maybe I should just tie us altogether with little bits of string, a chain gang of incomprehensible safety?

See Saw Margery Daw

[I apologise for my two week’s absence for ski week and spouse away week, I shall start playing catch up on Monday]



I decide to cook something in advance for the returning spouse. What is a good choice for the stressed out and jet lagged? My mouth talks to my son during the 22 minutes I spend persuading him to eat one grape and a slivered slice of organic apple, but my brain is elsewhere. If I only have to reheat good food, then I can give him the precious gift of time and attention after a terrifying week in England. “I am no Hungary. I wanna go to school now!” he bellows before taking flight. The first statement makes perfect sense but the second has no meaning.

The flowers she picked along the roadside begin to wilt in the middle of the table. I have a pang of guilt about the extravagant bouquet for Mother’s Day in England, a couple of months or more before the American version. “They are lovely dear, you really shouldn’t have gone to all that expense. A card would have been more than enough, really it would. I know you can’t buy them out there are this time of year but you used to make your own. I loved your hand made cards.”

I glance at March’s speech calendar from school. We are already behind. When we hit cereal time I charge upstairs to the bedrooms during the next safe’ish’ three minutes of munching. Horray the beds are dry! Four less loads of laundry to make amends with Mother Nature. I do not make the beds but pat and smooth them. Good enough.




I grab clean clothes from the laundry basket and dash back down stairs to prompt them to clear their places at the table. It’s warm but I pull on long trousers to hide the bruises that are only of consequence to those who cannot understand. They struggle with teeth cleaning as I dress in the kitchen and splash water on my face. A large box of Tampax is strategically placed next to the tooth paste, to provoke a question from the female population, preferably several questions. “Don’t forget to brush the ones at the back!” I solemnly swear that sometime between now and bed time, I will take a shower. What happens to a body if I don’t? Will I begin to rot or merely smell rotten? I remember yesterday’s grocery shopping, still in the garage, unpacked.

“I am need!”
“What do you need dear?”
“Gold.”
“Um…. Ah yes! It’s nearly St. Patrick’s Day. We’ll make pots of gold after school dear.”
“No!”
“No?”
“I am need dah golden pointy things!”
“Good describing. Do you have any more describing words?”
“Er….dey stick things together and they are making them move.”
“Um….paper fasteners!”
“Yes!” I dither. I have no idea where they are but I don’t want to provoke a meltdown at this delicate stage of the day. We have been working with these little instruments of torture for approximately three and a half years off and on. This is the first occasion that he has voluntary made the first move. What if I look and still can’t find them? Who needs a dollop of negative reinforcement at 7:20 in the morning? I only have time for small and this is huge. “I’ll go and look for them, wait here.”

En route to school in the car I watch someone touch up their make-up in their rear view mirror at a stop light. Glossy, brushed hair and apricot pink talons. I sink a little in my seat and pull my baseball peak lower. My son’s feet pummel the back of the chair as he reves up for a question. The gardeners have finished the grass, now all I have to do if figure out how to programme the little sprinkler control box. How long will that take? Where can I find a long? I only have time for shorts. The school is so close to the Pottery studio. My membership dues are due and I’ve only been once in three months. It’s like a New Year’s resolution to go to the gym every day that fizzles out by mid January. The library fines and forgotten dry cleaning take priority. I remember the note, written in red ink in my diary:- ‘science fair project.’ This evening we must squeeze in another hour of ‘how to mummify fish’ and check the progress of the dead bodies kept in a dry cool spot. I am still searching for a ‘dry cool spot’ in California, in March in 70 degree heat everywhere.


At school a tub of Goldfish crackers awaits my starving son, on his desk. No wonder we’re making no progress on the food campaign. My son’s body backs into mine, spoons style, his fond farewell, as physical contact is often compromised. I need to call into the post office to send off the hand knitted socks to my oldest daughter in Massachucetts, even though they won’t cure her cold. I’m sure I have forgotten something. The car! I need to investigate the smell, the banana smell in the car, before two of them refuse to cross the stink barrier.

Which is more wasteful and why? Ten to 20 minutes watering the new grass so that it stays alive or an indefinite period of time fiddling with the control box and still not being able to water the grass? If I don’t buy and distribute slug pellets within the next 24 hours something will be lost, although I can’t quite remember what it is? I need to make sure that I am at home to receive a telephone call from England at mid day here, which is 8 in the evening there or endure another time warp. If I don’t pay the gardeners today will they return, roll up the lawn and take it away again? Do I really want to spend time making fish pie and salad for people who are unlikely to even sniff them let alone eat them? I need to get hold of a copy of the school se.x talk in advance, just to double check, prepare and ensure that I am ready to deal with any inconsistencies of a pre-teen education. If I don’t collect the prescriptions today will they need to be re-authorized? If I don’t write those thank you notes today I will effectively disqualify myself from any society that calls itself humane. It is my duty as a citizen to listen to the radio so that I can formulate a well reasoning political opinion but I also need to clean out the vegetable drawer in the fridge.

I breathe at the junction, heavy with commuting traffic, waiting for my moment to join the throng in safety. A car slows, the driver waves to me. I pause at the greeting, a moment of hesitation before I raise my fingertips from the wheel and beam back. I recognize the next movement, the gesture of exasperation and she shakes her head and accelerates away closing the gap she made for me. I reflect on her moment of frustration, a tiny pin prick to my high wire balancing act. Poor woman. Wrong category, too little, too late. In the great scheme of things it's minute, an irrelevancy but my eyes leak.

The school day passes at break neck speed, a frenzy of activity and medical insurance paper work. I have every labour saving appliance I need and yet I am still far behind schedule as I collect them in the car.













I decide to avoid the subject of the ‘health talk’ at school until I can find some private time with her. My eldest son is silent as he has exhausted his word bank for the day, squandered them all on peers and teachers. My youngest son is never silent.

“Multi-Emballage! Multi-Emballage! Multi-Emballage!” he squalks, an endless cycle in between giggles.
“What are you saying? Whose been teaching you French dear?”

Surely they should be learning Spanish, if anything?

“It is be right….er ….write.”
“Where was it written?”
“On dah box.”
“What box?”
“40!”
“Um…….. where is the box?”
“Dah box is being in dah kitchen.”

I am stunned by his helpfulness and patience with my tired old brain.

“Big box or little box?”
“Little box.”
“What colour is the little box?”
“Er it is be dah white and dah sky blue wiv dah elipse. It be have dah little rainbow, dah sunshine yellow, dah apple green and dah neon stinky pinky.”
“Um……? Is there anything inside the little box?”
“Yes, it is be dah little box of Tampons.”

An aid to understanding

We wait nearby on the playground.

We adopt our usual formation of unstable rugby scrum, as everyone appears to have lost the ability to stand independently.

My daughter comes charging up, the last out of her class as usual. She careens towards us, a bowling ball, but I can already see the tears. I brace myself for impact.

“There’s been a mix up and I know yur gonna say nooooo!”

I consider this statement to be a sophisticated pre-emptive strike on her part. I already know what is coming, because I too have learned my lesson.

“Now just calm down and breathe a bit dear.”

Her pal is close on her heels.

Her pal’s mother, brings up the rear.

“I can’t go to her house so can she come to us?” she pleads between sobs.
“Yeah, my mom’s busy. I got it wrong.”

Mom arrives.

“Hi Natalie!” I beam with my teeth but my eyes are hidden by my dark glasses.
“Hello there. What seems to be the problem?”
“I’ve got stuff to do, so I can’t have her, so if you can have em, then I’ll taken em tomorrow.”
“That’s very kind of you but we have other plans for tomorrow.”
“She can’t come tomorrow. O.k. mebbee next week.”
“No matter.”
“But mom…”
“It's o.k. I’m happy for her to come home with us.” Home territory is the only safe bet.
“Great. See yah!”
“Could you pick her up at about 5 please?”

I’m not sure if she’s heard me but we lumber off in the general direction of the car.

The main topic of conversation between the girls has been the forthcoming birthday celebrations, which have been delayed from December as we trundle through March. Any child that can endure such delayed gratification deserves an award. The plans change and grow, well rehearsed. Whilst the boys are not included in this conversation as such, they are physically present during the many car rides, the giggling and the strategizing. Their social skills percolate up from nowhere in particular, in meticulous detail.





“What colour it is?”
“What colour is what?”
“Dah limo.”
“I don’t know.”
“How many kids are be come?”
“I don’t know.”
“You gonna go Build a Bear?”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna go dah Olive Garden?”





“Yeah.”
“So when it is be?”
“What?”
“Yur pardee?”
“I don know.”
“I thought it was be Saturday?”
“No, it’s been canceled for this week.”
“No sleepover?”



“No.”

I can see her face in the rear view mirror, complete with fallen crest. I am startled that they initiated a conversation, had every fact in place, that she was patient enough to understand them and answer.

It is because I am so dumbfounded by the developmental leap that I’m slow to react, to defend her from their persecution and end the inadvertent torment. A different child might recognize her crumpled state. Another child would realize the shattered dreams and the quake of the tremulous. I look at her diminished and ever shrinking form, on the back seat. I have a sudden urge to hug her or bundle up her sophisticated pre-teen form in several yards of cotton wool.

“Tell you what, once we get home we’ll skip homework until later. You can all just play for a while. I’m sure we can find some biscuits or something,” I add, all will power dissolved, brain power at a low ebb.

“She means cookies,” she whispers with glee.

I look in the rear view mirror, my daughter, her pal in the middle and my son on the other side, squished together like sardines in sympathy.

Black holes and other conundrums

I worry about dying brain cells.

I am no longer able to remember how to spell 'Tchaikovsky' but find that 'Schizophrenia' is a doddle.

I have mislaid my encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs and my ability to match the correct face and name of Thomas the Tank Engine and his rabble. It's a losing battle. Meanwhile I struggle with Pokemon powers, pronunciation and other evolutions. NPR drifts into my auditory processing system about "twins," separated twins. I listen with my ears closed because the quips that I hear set off alarm bells:- their sense of loss and being incomplete.

My working knowledge of twins is limited. I have friends who are twins. I have have friends who have twins. I have friends who have autistic twins both in real life and on line. When I had children of my own I would attend baby showers, a largely American phenomenon. The first time expectant parents would announce their double delight, twins were on the way. All those without children would say 'how cute.' All those with children, would think, silently, 'baptism of fire.'

I see no point in dwelling upon the past but at the same time I recall a period of years when I was always pregnant. The number of pregnancies is easy to count, but not good to share. It is enough that I have four perfect children now. Through all the fear, I can reflect upon one miscarriage in particular. The blood was a tip off at four months. It is the clue that shuts down your brain and heart because numbness is the only way to survive, especially if you have other children to thrive for. The telephone call was compassionate but at 17 weeks there was nothing to be done. We went through the same steps that we had been through before, the resignation and acceptance of the inevitable.

Once in the obstetrician's office I removed my glasses so that I would be unable to focus upon the screen. Instead I focused upon what possible arrangements we could make for our other children whilst I visited the hospital, again? Overnight stay or 'out-patients'? It was hard to resist the magnetic pull of the screen. My eyes were drawn to it's darkness and displayed a black blob. It was not a picture that I wanted seared into my retina. My ears remained open, listening to the silence. We could not ignore the sudden familiar detection of a rhythmic heart beat, hidden, until it was chased down, cornered and came into view. A hidden twin! A perfect, fast moving little shrimp of grey fuzzy dots.

It's not that I don't ever think about such things, it's more that I find it important to concentrate on the here and now of life, rather than the 'what if?' of years gone by.

The here and now, makes me wonder what percentage of his agitation, hyper-vigilance and anxiety is related to what he himself has lost, his twin? His reliance and dependence upon little talismen to help him through the day? The slew of stress. How much is autism, how much is being a little kid, how much is an absent presence?

Wordy Wednesday - dexterity

Ms.Wordy Wednesday drops in for a chat:-
“My, my, my! Photograph with label! Your photographic skills are coming along nicely!”
“Actually that’s a very old photograph, things have gone downhill since then.”
“?”
“The old computer had a photographic programme and new new computer doesn’t so whatever I click is whatever I’m stuck with.”
“Why don’t you download the old program?”
“I don’t know what it was called.”
“Hmm give me a mo and I’ll try and find a recommendation for you.”
“Make sure it’s a cheap one!”
“Don’t worry…..it’ll be idiot proof!”
“Very fitting.”
“So ……it’s a 3-D puzzle thing? Are those magnet?”
“Yes indeedy.”
“Fun.”
“Fun for some.”
“Ah……not for some others? Yours?”
“Mine.”
“Doesn’t fall into the category of preferred activities then?”
“Torture.”
“Lack of motivation?”
“You really get this don’t you! You should go into special ed, you’d be a real asset.”
“So this another mega achievement?”
“Got it in one.”
“Does this link to last weeks one on hand strength.”
“Yes. Tell you what!”
“What?”
“See that pencil by the side of your computer? Pick it up.”
“O.k…..and?”
“How did you pick it up?”
“With my thumb and forefinger.”
“That’s called a pincher grip.”
“And?”
“It’s very difficult to do, to get those two fingers to connect and be strong enough to lift something.”
“Geez. Really? What do you do about that!”
“Practice. But it’s hard because they’re not really motivated, and there’s always the texture thingummy too.”
“I can’t believe how that tactile defensiveness stuff gets into everything.”
“Indeed. But that’s only the little one.”
“What about the bigger one?”
“He has different issues.”
“Such as?”
“He has trouble with depth perception, seeing where things are in relation to other things, but I won’t go into that now.”
“It’s hard to believe that there’s so much stuff going on all at the same time.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to see the wood from the trees. Also it’s really hard for them to make their bodies move in the way that they want them to move.”
“How do you mean?”
“Say you try to pat your head with one hand and rub your tummy in a circular movement with the other at the same time.”
“Oh that old trick.”
“Difficult! That’s what it’s like for them for lots of ordinary everyday tasks.”
“Lummy.”
“That’s why the magnets were so great.”
“Ah, they didn’t have to be that precise in their movements, just near enough and the magnets would latch on.”
“Exactly. And do you know what the best bit was?”
“What?”
“As he tried to put them together his hands were quaking with the effort and finally he made that cube.”
“Oh yes, success is always gonna be self reinforcing, he’ll try again, have a sense of achievement.”
“We all need a bit of that in our lives.”
“So how long did it take to get to that stage?”
“Don’t even go there dearie!”
“Probably…..much quicker than you will with the photoshop programme!”
“!”

sun - Breakfast at…….mid day maybe?

What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time. Why not combine our weekly trip to a restaurant with a gentle stroll? I'm on my own at the moment as their Dad had to "leave" for "England" unexpectedly.

I think my first mistake was the belief that ‘breakfast in restaurant,’ equated with ‘motivation or reward,’ surely proof positive of a serious brain malfunction on my part.

I knew that my brain was in a worm hole because after less than 50 yards I could calculate that at the current rate of progress, we might just arrive by next week, if we were very lucky. During these scientific multiplications it also dawned on me that next week, after we had eaten breakfast, I lacked any suitable motivation for the return trip home.

I was haunted by the upcoming newspaper headlines:-

‘Foreigner takes up residence in Flames restaurant.

When interviewed, the woman Mrs. Madeline McMad, 47, explained that although she had permanent residence status in the United States, she and her children we unable to leave Flames, a family run franchise. McMad’s home is approximately 1000 yards from the restaurant. Although walking impaired, she otherwise appears to be in good health. McMad owns a vehicle and a valid California Driver’s license.

The owner of the restaurant, Mrs. Lalima Bhata is at a loss to explain her sudden popularity.

"At first I thought they were seeking Political Asylum but they’re already citizens."

The case is now being handled by the FBI, due to possible International terrorist connections. Agent "Mu Meng" was not at liberty to provide further information but explained ‘clearly this woman has some serious, unresolved, psychological issues. She has a perfectly good car and yet choose to walk to the establishment. Now she claims that she has lost the ability to walk. You can be sure that there is more to this than meets the eye. She has an ulterior motive and it’s our duty to find that motivation and protect the American people from this idle threat.’

Anyone willing to put up bail?