Vale Dame AS Byatt

This morning, I woke to the news that Dame Antonia Susan Duffy DBE HonFBA, had passed away at 87. Until I’d finished this blog post, I hadn’t realised that she shaped me in a way that almost no other person has.

For a while in a previous life, I worked in a bookshop. Equal parts both bliss and fatal. I ran the children’s department after cashing up in the morning from the trading the day before. Unusually, we had two branches of the same chain in the city. One was a considerably larger shop in a shopping centre/mall that had more room for authors to do large signings in. I once saw the back of Terry Pratchett’s head.

The shop I worked in was in an old building; double-fronted, with floor-to-ceiling windows. One of which I once nearly fell out of when Colin Firth walked in on a visit to his parents, who lived in Winchester. It was nearly Christmas 2003 when Love Actually was out. We had floor-to-ceiling posters advertising the tie-in materials all over the shop. I may or may not have photocopied his till receipt with his signature on. We hosted smaller signing sessions; Isabelle Allende, Santa Montefiore and her husband, Simon Sebag Montefiore. His mother, Phyllis was regular and a hoot. She was a very proud parent, moving both Santa and Simon’s books to the front of the store every time she came in.

By the way, we also had a fantastic Oxfam second-hand bookshop in the town. I’d regularly visit, both to drop books off and to peruse their stock. After wondering around for a bit on one visit, I found a book I’d not read in ages. I brought it, opened it on the bus on the way home and found my name in it.

In early 2004, the company sponsored the Art and Mind festival in Winchester. We all took it turns to run whatever pop-up shop we needed to be at, dragging and pushing a trolley up and down kerbs. On one Saturday morning, after cashing up, I toddled up to the theatre for the back-end of Antony Gormley’s talk. That same evening, after working all afternoon, I went to a cafe for AS Byatt’s talk. I had never read any of her work, but I was being paid overtime to go. I chose it as it was smaller venue, and the event after hers didn’t include selling books. When she was done talking, I was done for the day. (Finding the program online for this; why the frick I didn’t volunteer for Brian Eno, I have no idea. This event was after Christmas Eve debacle of changing the entire shop to Boxing Day before we could go home; but before the brouhaha when Order of the Phoenix came out. I was on shift for 18 hours, had a complete sense of humour failure about the whole thing and changed jobs shortly afterwards).

Anyhoo, Antony Gormley was fabulous; answering every question about his work, and didn’t leave until after everyone had the chance to talk with him. The Angel of the North hadn’t long been in situ, my Australian/USA readers, if you’re ever in the UK, it is stunning. However, Domain Field was what he was talking about. A few years later, I was given tickets to the last weekend of Blind Light, which was one of the most disconcerting experiences of my life; but that is for another blog, for another day as I’ve gone off on enough tangents as it is.

Antonia walked in with her husband, Peter Duffy; she’d kept her previous married name to write under. Peter sat off to the side and watched her proudly as she held the room in the palm of her hand. The time flew by, I’d gone because I’d had to. I’d gone as I was being paid to sit there. Instead, I listened. She talked about how writing the perfect sentence was elusive and entirely what she sought to do each day. She thought she might have written one, once.

I see her now, practically being shoved out the door by Peter, so they didn’t miss their train, while still trying to finish her point over her shoulder. She had been gracious with her time too, and opened my eyes to what I’d been missing. Up until this point, while I’d read voraciously all my life, I’d ignored literary fiction. Other than the Classics, I avoided it.

To me, Booker Prize winner meant ‘hard work’, I didn’t want to chew through books, I wanted to fly through them. After hearing Antonia talk, I stood in front of the shelves and chose the least daunting cover of her books. I didn’t read any of the blurbs on the back of any of them to choose a story. I couldn’t, as there were no synopsis printed on them. Publishers, being told how wonderful a book is, while giving me no idea about what it’s about seriously gives me the irrits.

Consequently I went in to Possession completely cold. I read it over the course of a week, turned it around and read it again. I re-read it at least once a year, and not one person that I’ve recommended it to has ever not liked it. Which is really just as well, because if you didn’t like it, 1. I would think you’re crazy and 2. would have to reassess my opinion of you.

I am so jealous of people who have not read the book, because the world she created is stunning and it is waiting in front of you. The characters central to the book are on a collision course across time; it all starts by the chance finding of a draft of a letter, folded into a book. Two Victorian poets, Christabel LaMott and Randolph Henry Ash, who had lived relatively small, quiet lives; although his success was greater than hers (natch), are now subjected to scholars pouring over their every written word. Items of correspondence, even their families and friends’ letters and household diaries; every time pen was put to paper it is examined in detail, on both sides of the Atlantic. From the dusty shelves of a British library, where it costs you to photocopy a page; to the unlimited resources of American backers and a portable photocopier in a suitcase. That unfinished letter unfolds a mystery that had hidden in plain sight. All the scholars around the world who’d spent their academic careers pouring over every word? Everyone had missed it and everyone misunderstood.

I will be forever grateful for that time spent in her company. That one evening listening to AS Byatt talk changed my reading career. Twenty-three years ago, she gave me a gift that has been paid forward a hundred times over. I cherish that she gave me permission to try. Since then, I’ve never looked back from hard books, books that challenge me, books that make me feel deeply.

30 things that make me happy

Daily writing prompt
List 30 things that make you happy.

In no particular order

  1. Our son, who makes me laugh every day.
  2. Our little family.
  3. Kubo, our new dog. In a week he’s already changed how we act as a family, I’m getting out for a walk with him twice a day most days.
  4. Reading, I read two books on Saturday and finished off a third on Sunday.
  5. Leeloo, she is adjusting to having the dog in the house. I love that she sleeps under the covers with me.
  6. Our bed, it’s a Sleeping Duck mattress and frame. We brought a harder side mattress for the husband and a softer side for me. With cotton sheets and an electric blanket, it’s my favourite place to be.
  7. A long, hot bath. Preferably with a book.
  8. Coffee, (was higher up, but thought the better of it)
  9. House plants.
  10. The days beginning to draw out, as we inch towards Spring.
  11. Being able to get washing on the line when it’s not raining.
  12. Candles, nightlights.
  13. The Thermomix, it’s a T31. It was so expensive, I named it Nellie. As an aside, with a lifetime guarantee, I ain’t buying a new fangled one with a chip, so stop emailing me.
  14. My coven *twirls moustaches*
  15. Food in the pantry and a roof over our head.
  16. Open windows and a breeze blowing through the house.
  17. Dinner with family and / or friends.
  18. Laughing till my sides hurt.
  19. Stationery. I have too much, but still like perusing.
  20. Haberdashery shops, UK version – patterns, buttons, sewing supplies, fabric rolls.
  21. Libraries. We must protect them at all costs.
  22. Halloween Decorations.
  23. Going out for breakfast.
  24. The kitchen clean, all the dishes away before we go to bed at night.
  25. Squidging my toes into sand.
  26. The feeling you get when you’ve exercised, hard.
  27. 475 days alcohol free.
  28. Elephants.
  29. Edna Mode.
  30. Honeydew Green or Matcha green tea in the morning; black tea in the afternoon, Assam, Earl Grey, French Earl Grey – I don’t mind.
Picture of a white coffee mug on a rustic table. There's an open journal with text over, saying 'May your coffee always be served with love'.

What is on my bedside table?

As of today, here is what I’ve read from the prompts for this year’s The 52 Book Club. I’m enjoying this challenge as it’s as flexible as you need to be; some people in the Facebook group have completed it already, others have barely started.

To avoid buying books, I’m trying to choose from titles on my shelves already, (including the kindle). If I get stuck, then borrowing from the library first; while keeping my fingers crossed for a second-hand version; or using an audible credit, before buying a new book.

Which works ok, until you listen to a book and can’t imagine living without it in your house. See Bono and Chloé Hayden; even Jean Rhys has made me re-read Jane Eyre again on the kindle, and I’ve decided I now need a physical copy of Jane at home.

I’m also trying to fit my Book Club book selections into the prompts where I can, Mrs Benson’s Beetle as an example. Managing to borrow a copy from the library – triple tick / Venn diagram crossover!

Here are the books I can firmly say meet the prompts and I’ve finished.

On the pile to read, selected from prompts, but not got to them:

Some additional books I’ve read, but I haven’t looked if they fit the prompts yet:

  • Various and multitudinal audio versions of Agatha Christie. I’m not going to link them (as you can find them easily enough), I’ve read most if not all of her books at some point. I said to Mum the other day, I ought to go on Mastermind about them. And Then There Were None, The Body in the Library, At Bertram’s Hotel, Cat Among the Pigeons, The Hollow, Death in the Clouds, Death on the Nile, Evil Under The Sun, Dead Man’s Folly.
  • ADHD 2.0, Edward M. Hallowell, John J. Ratey – this is such a good book to explain ADHD, I’ve brought it and sent it on to others.

On the way over the past 6ish weeks of reading almost daily, I’ve reminded myself how great it is, laughing and crying along with the story. I’ve cut down on doom-scrolling, I’ve also got to the gym at least twice each week, sinus infection notwithstanding.

My favourites so far;

  • Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance. Was NOT ready for this book. I love Rohinton Mistry’s Family Matters and have had A Fine Balance on my shelf for ages. It was beautiful, brutal and broke my heart. It also reinforced how much I love reading books about India. I’ve no idea where that has came from, but it’s a continent I return to time and again through books.
  • Alain de Botton’s How Proust Can Save Your Life. I love how de Botton writes at the best of times, this was the most glorious of times. de Botton shares vignettes from Marcel Proust’s life, with excerpts from letters and books, ‘How to choose a good doctor, ‘How to enjoy a holiday’ each chapter is grouped into topics and is delightful. It couldn’t have been written by someone who didn’t love and intimately know their subject. Can’t recommend it highly enough.

Ministry of Sounds

Another in my series of living with ADHD, and not really realising it. Link for part one, Returning to Self and link for part two, I’ll Tumble 4 Ya. This one is a hot mess of sounds, time awareness and bruises.

I remember driving out of Doncaster Shopping Town, our son was still in his car seat with a five point harness, so not very old. He was cross, he was ratty, he was over shopping, people, lights and noise and his general demeanour in turn had set me off. I was sat at the traffic lights, also ratty, also over people, lights and noise so I did what I do to cope.

I put on some music really loud.

Our son started crying louder. I turned it up so I couldn’t hear him.

3.2km later (I’ve just looked it up), I had to pull into a garage at the roundabout, I was also now crying. I stopped the car in a parking bay and got into the backseat next to him. I undid his car seat and we sat with each other. Me apologising for putting the music on and upsetting him more.

In my late teens and early twenties I discovered clubbing. I went out to dance. From 9pm to 1am, two or three nights a week, I was on the floor. I didn’t care if I was the only one dancing, unusual for me not being worried about being up and visible. The music and the clubs I went to were a safe haven. The music pounding in my chest, took all thoughts away from me.

The bouncers knew me by name, I’d go clubbing with P and later E. Whoever I was with, it meant we’d be pulled out of the queue and fast-tracked in. The taxi company P and I used would also send a car out quicker to us at the end of the night, because they knew we were only 8 minutes up the road from the club and were sober. A quick turnaround and an easy job.

Every so often you get a song that lifts everyone and is the song of the season. If you’re lucky, its a great tune and will stay on the DJs radar, this is a song I listen to almost daily and I still love.

Bonus points if you knew what it was going to be before the link opened up 😉

It was a total floor-filler, the entire dancefloor wafting around in the middle of the song, waiting for the beat to drop and then we’d all go crazy. That song is my everything. It’s my starting ritual. It’s my mood changer when the world has gone to hell in a hand basket (hence the daily play). It’s my pep talk. I honestly can’t tell you how much I love it.

I’m going to do a playlist on Spotify, watch this space.

Rarely, I can also use it for a burst to get me through and give me one spare spoon for the day. If I do use it for that, I know I will need to get to bed earlier and sleep later as I’ll be useless in the morning. Life-style-tip, having batch-cooked and running a pantry saves me; because when I’m totally fried, it is very rare that we as a family won’t have something to grab and go for lunch or to nuke when we’re home in the evening for dinner.

Saltwater came out just as my heyday of clubbing in Eastbourne was coming to an end. In those days, we didn’t have the Spotify, so would you believe, I never knew what it was bluddy called! In a pub in deepest Wiltshire, I was behind the bar, on a walk around collecting glasses, the DJ put it on so he could have a pee-break. Crossing the dance floor, I asked him ‘What is this called?’ From the next morning, first via Napster.

Around the same time; we worked it out it was within the same month, the husband walked across a dancefloor in a pub in Townsville to ask the same question. About as far away from Wiltshire you can get. He still loves it too.

I was in Coles supermarket in the town we used to live in before we moved to Regional Victoria. I got to the tills and freaked out, leaving my shopping behind. I took our son and just bolted to the car. I thought I was having a panic attack, or extreme anxiety. Nope, I was again overstimulated, overwhelmed and overambitious about what I needed to get done.

The husband and I were both working full time, our wee man was in nursery full time. However, I wasn’t being paid for nearly six months of the year as the child care rebate cap (subsidising care for working parents), mostly being that around each January if you work full time you will hit the ceiling of what is paid to the centre. Leaving you to pay everything. Which means, my entire take-home wages went on fees from January through the end of June. I’d get a tax rebate at the end of the financial year, we’d pay some off what we’d had to put on the credit card. Wash and repeat for six years.

The husband was trying to keep it all together at his work, heading into the city from our suburb, getting up and onto a train before our son was awake. Our son was also picking up every single bug going, if he woke up poorly, I would be the one that had to stay home. When my six months trial period came up, the aforementioned eejit said ‘I don’t know if you’re suitable, you’ve not been in for a full week since you started.’ I had hysterics, took advice and offered to extend my trial period out for another six months to show that I was. There is more I could say here, but we’re going to leave it for now.

Being employed for over six months did mean I was able to access the EAP, (Employee Assistance Program). The Monday after the Coles trip the weekend before, I called the EAP from a meeting room. I said that I was having problems with my son. Reader, I wasn’t, I was in full flight mode and just pegged it out of Coles because my body told me too. My clearest memory was carrying him out like a surfboard when I shot out of Coles, I had put all my focus on us leaving. At the meeting, I was met with someone armed and ready to give me parenting advice. Not to talk me through having a meltdown myself, which is what happened.

From there I did get some regular counselling, but that eejit? I had to work late to go to appointments, even if they were over my lunch break. Did I mention disdain and disregard is something to look forward to working through with ADHD too?

You have permission to rest.
You are not responsible for fixing everything that is broken. You do not have to try and make everyone happy. For now, take time for you. It's time to replenish.

Learning to rest and recuperate is the hardest lesson I’m learning.

Writing about what I’ve been like my whole life, has taken me back to through time and place really clearly. I know we’re all struggling with time as a concept since 2019, it really has become more nebulous the world over. But that is what it is like for me, all the time. No pun intended. Whenever I’m going ‘home’, that is basically where I’m sleeping tonight. If I’m your guest wing, that’s home.

My sense of place and time is truly up the wahoo. If I say ‘A few weeks ago’, that could mean anything from about 2010 onwards. I’ll say ‘You remember!’ to the husband, and he’ll give me a blank look. I then have to go on a breadcrumb trail through people, places and things to get to where my brain is, leading him on a journey that I’ve just leapt to in my head.

My brain also fires off so quickly, I can forget what I’m doing, while I’m doing it. You know when you get up to go into the kitchen and forget why you’re there? That is me, daily. I live by lists, lists of lists, post-it notes, notes in my phone, a pad by my bed for when I wake up at 2am remembering something. I carry a note pad in my pocket at work so if I’m away from my desk I can pull it out. I can be found standing staring into space, pad and pen in hand, as by the time I’ve got them ready – I’ve forgotten what I’ve meant to remember. It is also my superpower though, as I can read a room and organise the shizzle out of anything because of what I’ve learned to do to organise myself.

I also didn’t realise until the past few weeks unconsciously since I’ve been in the workforce and flying a desk, I’ve set my day up by constantly drinking gallons of tea and water. Which means, I have to get up and away from my desk for a break. That was another 2am revelation that made me sit bolt up right in bed.

As I’m not aware of what is around me, I will walk into things. Fall over things. Drop things. I crash into people in the city, and not just because they walk so fricking slowly either. I am covered in bruises from walking into my desk; walking into walls or worktops; either opening the car door onto myself, or shutting the door onto my leg as my brain hasn’t yet got my leg in the car, before on autopilot it’s told me to shut the door.

If something is not in front of me, it does not exist. I love my bibelots as Georgie calls them, but if I have too many things around me, I get a bit lost. It’s great though, because I know when we go through the boxes of things in the garage over Easter, I’m going to see lots of things I’ve forgotten I had. As soon as I see it, I’ll remember. But seriously, the amount of

This has gone on a bit long so I’m going to leave you with a shining moment of ADHD glory. Every so often when I’m overstimulated and fretting about things, I will need ‘order and method’. Aside from buying a new notebook (the possibilities of them are endless. I can go into hyperdrive and go through the house on a purge and donate heaps of things to charity.

I used to live in a town with a fantastic second-hand bookshop. I’d take bags of books in, rummage around and come home with bags of different books #Bliss. One day I saw a book and thought excitedly, ‘I’ve not read that in ages!’ On the bus on the way home reviewing my bountiful haul, I opened the book up and saw my name in it.

Returning to self

This is the first in a series of blog posts about my recent ADHD diagnosis. I wrote most of it in one sitting, and kind of reached a natural pause (more like screeching to a halt), but here I am concentrating on school.

When you don’t fit in, other people’s social norms become layered on top of you. By reacting to their behaviour towards you, you stop doing (or curtail) what makes you, you. As Oh says in Home, “The true is, among Boov, I do not fit in, I fit out.”

Becoming homogenised into ‘acceptable’ is hard work. It is draining, soul destroying, and it breaks you. The moment you either blurt out something that you want to share; or if your outside of school / work / social group hobbies are a bit different to everyone else – life gets harder again. The layers of pain, shame and bewilderment take ages to scour off, if you can.

I didn’t want Barbies, I wanted the electronic Battleship. I didn’t really know what to do with the dolls, but I changed their clothes along with everyone else. At home, I loved building houses from Lego, would fully furnish them with itty bitty furniture. I also oved reading, but they were the wrong books.

I lived inside Swallows & Amazons, being handed the first one to read when I was 7 years old and had exhausted all the books at my grandparents. We lived there for nearly a year while our house was being renovated, as I moved up to Junior School. Over that year, my reading increased from ‘Oooooh!’ to voracious.

Instead of playing in the playground all the books other children had read, or recreated from what was watched on TV the night before, I wanted to be Captain Nancy Blackett. I tried to explain the plots of the books to my friends at school but was met with blank faces. Excluded from the group while they played keeping house. I tried to play Swallows & Amazons with my younger brother, but he’d not read them, and wasn’t interested in boats.

From memory, I only managed to persuade him to play this with me once, we were on holiday in Great Gransden, an old tree had fallen down at the back of one of the fields on the campsite. In my head it was my boat, I borrowed three of the poles from the windbreak and rowed all over the lake. Our Dad took a photo of us, my brother sat before one of the poles stuffed into the tree as a mast, I’m wielding the other two poles like oars, my face split from ear to ear in a grin.

(I’d still love to learn to sail. I’ll put that on the list for next year, I’ve got enough on my list for this year).

I was happy enough though, because I had John, Susan, Titty, Roger, the Swallows, and Peggy and Nancy from the Amazon to keep me company. In my mind I sailed from one side of the lake to the other, built campfires, boiled a kettle for tea, and had picnics of bread and marmalade.

This sailing knowledge came in useful one day, when we had an incursion with actors putting on a play, when one of them asked what the zig-zagging against the wind to sail was called, I blurted out ‘Tacking’ before anyone else.

Excluded from the group, know-it-all.                               

The girls played different games, guessing our favourite colours, what colour our bedrooms were painted, our middle names. By calling letters out, we’d move forward on a paving stone until we got to the other side of a courtyard to win. I didn’t have many letters in my name, and they were surprisingly easy to not be called out. Over and over again, I’d be last, laughed at. So I started adding in middle names to move forward.

‘That’s not right, you’re a liar!’

Excluded from the group.

Or when Uptown Girl was massive, friends of mine sang the song in the playground. Excitedly, having grown up on Billy Joel, I asked them to sing other songs of his. They were all right there in my head, my parents had them on LP, with cassettes for the car, then days of days, slowly brought all his albums on CDs to play. But I was met with blank faces again, because why would they want to sing anything from The Stranger or Glass Houses? They only knew a couple of songs from An Innocent Man.

Excluded from the group again, weirdo.

To this day, I hold swathes of song lyrics in my head. I can sing musicals from memory, It would drive my brother mad when I’d listen to songs on the radio, taping the top 40 onto cassette to listen to through the week, by Tuesday I’d have all the songs ready to sing along to. ‘How do you learn them so quickly?’ Particularly in the days of the Music Factory of Stock, Aitken, and Waterman, sometimes I’d only need to hear the song once or twice and it was there.

I also used to be able to hear a song and play it back on the recorder and sight-read music and play it accurately and consistently. Now, I don’t think I can even read music off the page. One day we had a performance at school, I wore a pink jumpsuit, (Hey, it was the 80s! I loved it though, it buttoned up like a shirt), not knowing I needed to be in uniform. Instead, I was shoved into the changing rooms and told to swapped clothes with Joelle. I stood in her school dress, crimson with embarrassment and tried to concentrate on playing.

When I got to Senior school, my recorder playing, (both the normal or descant, and the larger tenor version), was expected to be converted to clarinet. I was excited to learn this new instrument, but when it arrived, I hated the feel of the reed against my lip. I wanted to carry on noodling around with the recorder, but there wasn’t a place for that either in lessons or in the orchestra. So, I stopped playing altogether. Poor Mum and Dad, they would have heard all sorts of music from my bedroom, for it to stop completely.

Sweet Valley High books were all the rage by the time I got to Senior school. I didn’t particularly like them, but needing to fit in, I read them. I could read a book in a day and retain the basic, formulaic plots. Being able to talk about them meant I did fit in, but the waiting list at the library was long and we didn’t have much money to buy them. So, I stole them. Walking out of WH Smiths with bags of them. In a fit of overwhelm one day, I threw my entire bedroom contents over the banister and down the stairs.

I can remember Dad asking, ‘Where did she get the money to buy these?’ None of us wanting to address the elephant in the room. I didn’t have the money. But what I wanted or needed to fit in, I would take.

I hate this about myself.

I know now after doing more research into ADHD, impulse control is a massive indicator. The list of things I stole in my teens and early twenties is wide, varied and long. I’m not excusing my behaviour. I’m trying to understand it.

I’d be asked to do something, by the time I’d got to where I needed to do the thing, I’d have forgotten about the thing.

If I have no interest in something, I’d rather not do it. At all.

See barefoot bowls, no thank you. I don’t know if this is a legacy of being bullied because of my feet, or a legacy of being an absolute klutz with any type of ball.

Or going to see Cats when I wanted to see Starlight Express? I’m not going on the excursion at all, even though I respect democracy and we all voted on it; I know would make it miserable for everyone else.

This was really hard to manage at school. I wanted to study the period of history from the Tudors to Victorians, instead of Modern World History at GCSE, because I’d done the 20th Century to death and was bored of it. But as there were only 8 of us who wanted to study it, the school couldn’t put it on as an elective exam.

Simple solution. I didn’t study, at all. I relied on my prior knowledge to scrape a C when I was predicted an A, pissing the teacher off good and proper.

I would question teachers, ask them things over and over to explain something that didn’t make sense. Trigonometry and percentages are a closed book. I can do percentages only if I look up on google how to do them, every time. My maths teacher would explain things the same way over and over, I didn’t understand how he explained it. But he wouldn’t change the lesson so I could understand it. Instead, he shouted and humiliated me for not getting it, when everyone else did.

When I was taught how to teach swimming, I was taught that I would need to show some people how to do the strokes, I would have to describe how to do the strokes and I would have to assist some people to do the strokes. Some people need a mixture of all three to learn something new.

I was in trouble a lot for being disruptive and talkative in class, I’d do the work set for an hour in 15 minutes, ask for more to do but not be given anything. I would make a lesson last an hour, my speed and ability to absorb information slowing down. There’s nothing like a once-labelled gifted child being struck into inaction with perfection paralysis, or unable to start something altogether, because as we progressed through school we couldn’t learn at our own speed.

At times, I would be put on ‘report’ where I’d have to carry a card around with me. The teachers would initial the card, but only if I’d behaved, in their lesson. If I handed my homework in, I’d get another initial, but I’d forget to do my homework.

Sometimes I’d also forget the card, and the length of being on report would be extended out. Or I’d leave the card in a pocket in my uniform, it would get washed, and it would be extended out again. I’d go into detention to do my homework, then lie to my parents to say I’d missed the bus home.

I struggled to fit in. I’d work out the current trend, hop on it, it would change, I’d be excluded again. I was bullied for my height, my feet, my hair being short. For swimming, for not dancing; for laughing too loud; for being too loud; for when I was having fun playing; it was the wrong kind of fun. I liked the wrong kind of music.

I was bullied for having zero spatial awareness with any ball sports at school. Be that field events from athletics, tennis, hockey or netball. In netball, I was parked at Goal Defence as I was so tall, I would just stand there and block everything. One game I mishandled the ball, dislocated and broke a finger. The teacher watched me pull it back into place (not recommended) but didn’t send me to the medical room. Particularly frustrating as two minutes after it happened, someone got the ball bounced off the ground into their tummy, burst into tears and was despatched to the medical room. Maybe it’s because I didn’t cry, I just looked down and thought ‘That’s an interesting angle.’ After hours at emergency waiting for an x-ray, I had it taped to another finger for weeks. Going into school with it swollen and purple the next day. Dad was furious.

I was a preternaturally gifted swimmer, there’s more on that coming in another blog post, but because I was so good, the teachers expected it to cross over to other sports. Not for me it doesn’t. I’m so clumsy I’m still covered in bruises, and it was at the GP suggestion to assist with my brother and I’s coordination issues, we went swimming in the first place.

I have no poker face to hide my emotions, my face will tell you what I’m thinking, even if my mouth doesn’t. There is nothing like the look of disdain across my fizzog for something I do not want to do. I can’t fake it for politeness. Let it be known, I do try, but then I spiral into anxiety. Which presents as a short temper, which if I can’t wind down, ramps up to aggression, or paralysis. Fight, flight, freeze – or disruption, disenchantment, disconnect and defiance.