Love's Labours Lost The Plot

Crikey!  That last post was rather laboured, wasn’t it?  I know my blog name includes the word Rambling in the title, but that felt more like a trek through untamed jungle, with only a butter knife to hack back the overgrowth.  

And, my God, was there a lot of overgrowth.  I know I said that I’d done a lot of editing to get it down to that size (four and a half pages… FOUR AND A HALF A4-SIZE PAGES!!!  I usually manage to stick to two), but obviously not enough: that was minor pruning, rather than the lopping with a machete which was really needed.  And perhaps a blowtorch.

I spoke with my friend about it after she’d read it, and she confirmed that it was as laborious to read as it had been to write.  I like that about her (among other things).  She always tells me the truth, without sugar-coating it; but it never feels like criticism (except when I’m having a really bad day, in which case saying hello to me could be misconstrued as a criticism).

We agreed it was not one of my better pieces, being somewhat lacking in the humour department (though I had intended for it to be funny; the initial idea was humorous, but the long, drawn-out execution kind of squeezed all the fun out of it, so it did end up feeling that way - like an execution).  And the length… 

I was thinking about going back and editing it some more, but she said to leave it: it would be a reminder of what I’d done ‘wrong’, and what not to do next time.

Because, you see, I have actually developed a set of principles or guidelines for writing my blog posts, despite the fact that it may all seem rather random at times.  And they actually fit into an alliterative list, which pleases the little linguist in me immensely.  So, they are:

Keep It Simple - basically stick to one main topic or theme within each post.  This helps me to stay focused, and there’s the possibility that I might get the thing completed within a week of starting it if I can stay on the path, and out of the forest of my distractions…

Keep It Short - I have found, through trial and error, that approximately two A4 pages is enough for me to say what I need to say: any more and I start repeating myself (just with different words, so I don’t notice it).  Plus, the long ones are usually a sign that I’ve shifted into lecture mode, where I’m now trying to teach something or make a point; I’ve grown attached to the sound of my own thoughts; and I feel the weight of their importance and the need to share them.  God, are those boring posts to write, and read…

Keep It Sweet - by this I mean funny, but the only alliteration I could come up with was either Sweetly Funny or Seriously Funny, and it spoilt the poetic metre I’ve got going on…  So, sweet it is.  Being rather a depressed donkey by nature, I didn’t want this to be a place where I got to cement my woes ‘on paper’, as it were, and share the gloom and despondency of life.  This was meant to be a place where I could share the hope, strength, and experience of having initially survived life as an undiagnosed autistic with adhd (now moving into thriving), and the sense of humour which is so intrinsically a part of that shift, and necessary to keep cultivating in order to keep that donkey at bay.  So the minute I feel myself labouring on a post, being driven rather than guided to write, and having lost interest in the topic, then the humour has gone, and it’s time to either reassess, or abandon post.  As my friend would say, “how important is it really, in the scheme of things, if you don’t finish it?”  This helps to put things into perspective, which is also what humour does.

    

And so, before I break one or more of my guidelines, here endeth the deconstruction of my last post.  May it rest in peace.

A Pile Of Pooh!

The REAL Pooh!

Okay, I have to do this: it just cannot be borne any longer. *clasps hand to heart, and sighs deeply*

There is something I’ve been needing to get off my chest for a while now (and I don’t mean my bra.  It’s a saying we have here in England - not sure if it’s used in the rest of the UK because I don’t live there.  But it’s rather apt, given that your heart is situated in the chest area.  But I digress).  I know it’s not earth-shatteringly important in the scheme of things, but to me it is a major bugbear (bear - Pooh bear - ha ha ha *rolls eyes at own wit*), and the time has come to put people right.

Winnie the Pooh was written by AA Milne, who was English.  He wrote two books of stories about those characters, which were published in 1926 and 1928.  That’s all.  TWO BOOKS SPECIFICALLY ABOUT POOH.  He died in 1956.  

Since then, the character of Pooh has been appropriated by Disney, and therein lies the problem.  More books have been written about the Pooh characters, and people quote from them, and attribute said quotes to the REAL Pooh, and AA Milne.  Except that they have nothing to do with the real Pooh at all.  

They are the Disneyfied, homogenised (and I have to say it, so please don’t be offended because I know it’s not all of you), Americanised versions - which means they now churn out sentimental stories about Pooh and friends that are saccharine-sweet, sugar-coated, sappy clap-trap, full of dumbed-down ‘life lessons’, and rousing motivational speeches about how “you’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”  Yuck!!!  Makes me want to tear my hair out, and vomit.

(As a side note, I just checked on Google the date of AA Milne’s death, and the first two of three Pooh quotes listed were Disney ones, the first being the awful one that I’ve just quoted above!  AAAAAaaaaaahhhhh!!!! *runs screaming around the room in circles, like a demented duck*)

STOP IT!!!  Just STOP IT, would you?!  If you’re going to quote AA Milne, and Pooh, at least make sure you’re bloody well quoting the REAL thing, and not the bloody fake shite that Disney churns out.  These characters are not sweet, or cute, and one-dimensional - they are nuanced, and have depth.  The humour is subtle - it’s dry, ironic, sardonic, laconic, droll, deadpan, sarcastic, wry, and even (God forbid!) anarchic.  The man was English, for God’s sake: his humour is quintessentially English (or British).  And here’s the proof:

“Owl,” said Rabbit shortly, “you and I have brains.  The others have fluff.  If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest - and when I say thinking I mean thinking - you and I must do it.”

“Yes,” said Owl.  “I was.”

“Read that.”

Owl took Christopher Robin’s notice from Rabbit and looked at it nervously.  He could spell his own name WOL, and he could spell Tuesday so that you knew it wasn’t Wednesday, and he could read quite comfortably when you weren’t looking over his shoulder and saying “Well?” all the time, and he could…

“Well?” said Rabbit.

“Yes,” said Owl, looking Wise and Thoughtful.  “I see what you mean.  Undoubtedly.”

“Well?”

“Exactly,” said Owl.  “Precisely.”  And he added, after a little thought, “If you had not come to me, I should have come to you.”

“Why?” asked Rabbit.

“For that very reason,” said Owl, hoping that something helpful would happen soon.

“Yesterday morning,” said Rabbit solemnly, “I went to see Christopher Robin.  He was out.  Pinned on his door was a notice!”

“The same notice?”

“A different one.  But the meaning was the same.  It’s very odd.”

“Amazing,” said Owl, looking at the notice again, and getting, just for a moment, a curious sort of feeling that something had happened to Christopher Robin’s back.  “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“The best thing,” said Owl wisely.

“Well?” said Rabbit again, as Owl knew he was going to.

“Exactly,” said Owl.

For a little while he couldn’t think of anything more; and then, all of a sudden, he had an idea.

“Tell me, Rabbit,” he said, “the exact words of the first notice.  This is very important.  Everything depends on this.  The exact words of the first notice.”

“It was just the same as that one really.”

Owl looked at him, and wondered whether to push him off the tree; but, feeling that he could always do it afterwards, he tried once more to find out what they were talking about.

I rest my case.  And here endeth the rant.  ‘Normal’ programming will now be resumed.

Blowing A Gasket

Excuse me while I have a bit of a rant.

I don’t trust people to be able to do their jobs properly.  I know it’s not a particularly ‘nice’ trait, but it’s true.  To pretend otherwise is pointless, and dishonest.  I think people are inept, and I expect them to fail at their jobs; which is why they obviously need me to watch them, or worry, whilst they are doing what they’re doing.  After all, I, on the other hand, am totally ept.  

I do feel bad about it sometimes, when it turns out to have been unwarranted; and I try not to expect the worst.  But it seems it’s either that, or going to the other extreme, and having high expectations, which are then usually not met.  

And suggesting that it’s okay to have expectations, but that I should try not to set them too high is like asking me to throw myself off a cliff, but then stop my descent half-way down.  As with everything else, I don’t have a middle ground: it appears there’s just a great big, cavernous hole where the ground should be.  

Personally, my goal is to have no expectations at all, but I fear that this is probably only attainable by those who’ve achieved advanced yogi/spiritual practitioner status, which is beyond me at the moment.  And possibly forever.  After all, I have no idea whether it’s possible for an autistic yogi (with added adhd/anxiety/and obsessive compulsive disorder) to achieve such heady heights…  But I can dream big, and die trying.     

Now, as I said, some of this may come down to my having unrealistic expectations, which is exacerbated by me being autistic, and not understanding what to expect from people (plus the whole black or white thing I’ve got going on).  This I accept.  But sometimes it’s actually because people really are bloody useless.

Take my gas engineers, for example.  PLEEEEASE, take them!!.

My gas boiler decided to have a bit of a nervous breakdown the other night, making lots of loud banging and hissing noises when I tried to run the hot water.  It’s also been leaking for a few weeks, but I decided to ignore this because it was still working (albeit the pressure gauge had dropped to almost zero): and, basically, I just hate having to phone up and report repairs (I hate using the phone), so I generally leave them until they can’t be ignored any longer (you know, when the thing in need of repair ceases to function altogether).  

My reticence is also due to the fact that, because I have anxiety and worry about things, I’m never quite certain whether I’m just making a mountain out of a molehill, and I don’t want to appear to be just some neurotic nelly.  

So I finally took the hint on Tuesday night, and phoned the gas service people.  An engineer came out the next day, and boggled me with some vague and convoluted diagnosis of the problem.  It couldn’t be fixed that day, but would be scheduled as soon as possible.  He did reassure me that I could still use the boiler.

A visit was arranged for two days later, and then had to be postponed until after the week-end (other, more urgent, jobs had come up; made me feel really valued).  And finally the day arrived - and so did a different engineer, bringing greetings of doubt about the efficacy of the solution suggested by his colleague.  Good start.  It’s always reassuring when people working for the same company disagree with each other’s opinions.

He took one look at the boiler, said that the pressure gauge was really low, and that that was probably the problem.  Had the other engineer not filled it up when he was here, he asked?  Answer - no.  And yes, I said, I had pointed it out to him: just as I seem to expend a great deal of breath on pointing it out to nearly every engineer who comes to service or repair the thing.  But you’d think I was asking them to dismantle the whole boiler, the way some of them react to my request for them to top it up.  I’d become rather worried that perhaps I was just paranoid and obsessed with the gauge, because none of them seemed to deem it that important.  I have, after all, been known to become obsessed…

So he did that, and fixed the leak.  And off he went… fortunately, only as far as to sit in his van outside my flat.  I found that the drip was still dripping, so, at the risk of appearing neurotic, I toddled out to him, told him, and he reassured me that it was probably just a residual drip, after he’d filled it up: nothing to worry about.  But if it was still doing it tomorrow, call them out again.

Two minutes later, he was back, saying he’d just check it to be sure.  And lo and behold, there was a leak - caused by a fault in a repair done by a previous engineer, who happened to work for the firm which is no longer employed by my Housing Association.  Good to know that ineptitude runs through all of the companies to whom they contract out work.

So, it’s fixed.  This is good (though I do keep checking to see that the boiler is still working, as is in my nature).  I don’t have to entertain the idea of the whole system having to undergo major replacement surgery, which is a relief.  I was meant to be having a new system installed last year, but after receiving a letter of notification, I heard nothing else.  

Which is the story of my relationship with my local Housing Association.  It’s like dealing with the Keystone Kops.  They are mostly nice people, but they excel at ineptitude.  I need plenty of Ps when dealing with them - Patience, Persistence, Perspective, and Practise (all of which I am rather deficient in) - but just abandon all hopes of Perfection.

And here endeth my rather mild rant.  By the time I was nearly at the end of writing this, the sting had gone out of it, and mostly what I could see was the humour.  I’ve learnt that it’s pointless to keep holding onto the irritation and anger; that it can’t change anything; and it just harms me from the negative energy that it produces.  This doesn't mean that it's gone permanently yet: it will probably take a few days, maybe even weeks, for that to happen - I am a chunterer, someone who doesn't let go easily.  This is just the beginning of the process of me letting go.  

So I leave the Keystone Kops to their bumbling, and give thanks to God that the problem was finally (hopefully permanently) sorted; and that I have central heating, and I don’t have to pay for the repairs.  I have lived in homes without it, or with completely ineffective systems, and it was miserable.  At times like these not only do I need to see the humour, but I also have to remember to count my blessings.

May you see the funny side in all your dealings with authority.

Śanti

Seriously Humourless

Hello, I’m back.  Fret-ye-not, I’m still here.  I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth, or into a black cloud of internet doom.  Or any kind of doom, actually.  Though I have to admit that part of the reason for my absence of late has been due to one of my tediously frequent world wide web wanderings.  

But that’s not all that I’ve been doing.  No.  I’ve also been getting myself entangled in the words of a post I’ve been labouring over (labouring being the operative word), which I finally worked out was not coming together because:

a) I was being literal in my interpretation of the words of the quote from which I was working;

b) I was thinking too much, and too hard, about the meaning of the words, and what I should write; the resultant dodgy combination equates to ‘me + thinking = catatonic inertia’;

c) I appeared to have misplaced my sense of humour.

This last point in particular is most important, as without it I’m only half a person (not literally, of course.  Think how weird, and confusing, that would be).  

I am extremely serious by nature, but God has seen fit to balance this out by bestowing on me a sense of humour.  It may be dry, irreverent, and impenetrable to a lot of people, but I’ve definitely got one.  I’ve checked with Someone Who Gets It.  It helps to keep me sane - as much as that is a possibility with a mind as loopy, and prone to depressive donkey mode, as mine (think Eeyore, without a balloon to cheer him up).  Can you imagine what I would be like without it?  Dead, probably.

Unfortunately, I sometimes forget that I’ve got one, and then life becomes REALLY hard work…  

And you can see when I’m suffering from a humour-bypass because it manifests itself in my writing.  My blog posts turn into laboured, tedious, repetitive, formal, clod-footed, minutiae-obsessed lectures.  

This particularly happens when I’ve decided that the topic on which I want to write is meant to be serious.  Like recovery, for example.  Hence ending up with the pompously meant-to-be-clever-but-is-actually-pretentious sounding title of ‘Recover Your Self’ for those segments of my blog.  Shoot me now.  (I am going to change the title.)  

It sounds like the name of one of those awful self-help books with which I used to be so enamoured, with titles like Dying Of Embarrassment (yes, that’s a real book - and totally useless for an autistic with anxiety); The Drama Of Being A Child; and all of those endless Co-dependent No More books with their sequels, prequels, and off-shoots - like one of those film franchises that never end, which are so prevalent now. 

And sure, recovery is important, but that’s not the same as serious. Don’t ask me what the difference is, because I’ll give myself an aneurysm trying to work it out.  I just know that it is.  Even reading the two words gives me a different reaction.  ‘Serious’ just sounds really heavy, and doom-laden.  I feel the weight of expectation in that word, and in that ‘Recover Your Self’ title.  And I never work well under those circumstances.  

All creativity flees screaming from my being when confronted with expectations, and seriosity (no, it’s probably not a real word, but who cares?  It’s my blog, and I’m in charge).  I’m beginning to think it has more sense than I do, the dodo who goes boldly (and stupidly, not to mention repetitively) forward to embrace such things as have been proven to be anathemas to my soul.

We have a quote in AA for this (we have a quote in AA for everything): “Recovery is to be enjoyed, not endured.”  (This can, of course, be interchangeable with the word Life, for those not in recovery from something - is there actually anyone out there who isn’t?)  

The point is, it tends to get forgotten.  I certainly forget it.  Oftentimes I’m not even sure what it means…  “Enjoyment?  What’s that when it’s at home, then?”  And off we go on another existential tangent, seriously contemplating the meaning of joy.  An oxymoron waiting to happen if ever I heard one.

And the other reason for my absence from my little corner of the blogiverse is that I have been on a retreat from all things computer-related.  Again.  I have spent the bare minimum of time on here (which has meant one hour, three times a week, for my Skype sessions with my sponsor/best friend).  The rest of the time the computer has been switched off.  

I was intending doing some blog writing - just the ‘old school’ way, with pen and paper, ready to type up on the computer so that I wouldn’t be spending as long staring at the screen - but I haven’t felt much inspiration.  Instead, I’ve done a lot of journal writing, reading, and sleeping.  Yep, I give up the computer and, rather than the promised better sleep (in all of those articles I’ve read about digital ‘detoxing’ - now there’s a word that conjures up seriosity), mine goes to pieces.

Despite the sleep thing, I have felt better.  I’m always amazed at the difference in me when I manage to stay away from the internet, in particular, for any length of time.  It’s like a fog is lifted, one in which I wasn’t even aware of being engulfed, and I start to think clearly.  

It’s phenomenal.  I have my own thoughts and opinions!!  What the hell am I doing reading about the best jobs for your zodiac sign?!  Or the life-cycle of the lesser-spotted, three-legged, antipodean, ridge-backed newt?!!  Or how to cook lentils twenty different ways (I already know how to cook lentils; I don’t need twenty alternatives - having more than one option confuses my brain.  What, in the name of arse, am I doing)?!!!  

But then I forget what happens to me, and I want everyone else’s thoughts as well - except that it seems I have to let go of mine for theirs to replace them, because they can’t cohabit.  A bit like me.  It’s why I live alone.  Put me with someone else and I disappear.  

So, there we go.  Or that’s where I’ve been.  And now I’m here, but I’m going.  If I can manage to bring this to an end.  Which, at this rate, could take a while.

I wish you clarity and peace of mind, and time in your day to retreat from the world (especially the web part of it).  And may you find the humour in everything, to lighten your way.  (Sounding a bit Yoda-ish now.  Definitely time to go before I start sprouting tufty ears.)

Śanti  

Head In The iClouds

WARNING - THIS POST CONTAINS QUITE A LOT OF SWEARING.  PLEASE DO NOT PROCEED ANY FURTHER IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED!!!

Luddite - one of a band of protesters against unemployment who destroyed machinery in English factories about 1812-18; hence, any opponent of technological innovation, etc.

If there’s one thing guaranteed to drive me round the fucking bend, induce an almost total meltdown, and disturb my yogic bliss, it’s having to deal with technology - especially computer technology.

Which sadistic arsehole came up with the idea for computers?  I would really, REALLY like to meet that person, and shake them by the scruff of their neck.  Did they have no idea of the stress that they were unleashing on the world?

I bought a new laptop a couple of weeks ago to replace my old one, which has taken to overheating and spontaneously shutting down (a bit like a menopausal autistic female): and I decided to take the plunge (hoping like fuck I didn't drown), and invest in a supposedly much more user-friendly Apple MacBook Air.  All I can say at this point is, I don’t know who this user is to whom it’s supposed to be so fucking friendly, but it certainly isn’t me.  

I know there are many autistic people out there, women among them, who are positive geniuses with computers (probably one or more of them are responsible for developing the bloody thing in the first place) - but I’m not one of them.  I don’t see patterns, especially not in computers - I just see a random, confusing, fucking mess.  I am almost totally computer illiterate - you might as well write the bloody instructions in Swahili for all the sense they make to me.

Today, I finally got around to trying out my new external DVD drive, which I had to buy ‘cos the Airbook doesn’t have one (pay more money, get less hardware).  It’s only been sitting in its box for the last two weeks, while I’ve continued to watch DVDs on my old laptop with its integrated optical drive - did I ever mention I don’t like change very much?  And right from the start I managed to get into a pickle, simply by running the instruction DVD which came with the thing (but which, according to my best friend, is only necessary for Windows users.  No wonder I couldn’t follow the instructions - there weren’t any to be found for me to follow!)

In the end I had to rope in said best friend, yet again.  Fortunately, she also has an Airbook, and the same DVD drive: and she absolutely loves technology, and sorting out problems.  I think she’s quite loopy, personally, but there you go.  It takes all sorts.

So, for over an hour and a half, we fiddled and faffed about, trying various options, including downloading a different video player - but nothing worked.  Whilst I despaired, and my mind and nerves unravelled, she delighted in trying to unravel the conundrum.  

Finally, having exhausted all known options for why the fucking thing wouldn’t do as it was supposed to, and simply plug in and play, she suggested that I unplug it and then replug it into the USB port on the opposite side of the computer.  I thought she must be really desperate, or taking the piss, and visions of having to buy another computer with an integrated optical drive, just in order to be able to watch my DVDs, started to filter into my now overly fraught mind.  But I did what she asked and, lo and fucking behold, it worked!  I then tried it again in the port from which I’d just removed it, making sure to connect it firmly like she had said it needed, and it worked.

Un-fucking-believable!!  All that time and, for me, hair-pulling stress, and it came down to not having plugged the bloody thing in properly.  Talk about Not Keeping It Simple!  (Keep It Simple is a slogan we have in AA, but often don’t use - case in point).

Technology often makes me want to chew my own foot off and use it to club to death whoever was responsible for creating it in the first place.  Do they seriously not realise how much stress they released into the universe with the advent of this stuff?  Mental, emotional, and physical?  My computer takes over my whole bloody world - it becomes my higher power, a God at whose altar I sacrifice my peace of mind, physical well-being, and sanity.  It makes me loopy.  As if I needed any extra assistance.

Well, after today, I’ve decided that I’m not doing it any more.  I’m not giving it that power - it can sod off.  I think this is God’s joke on me, an additional source of humour about which I can write, and laugh at myself for my Luddite predilections.  Seriously, I think I have a prehistoric brain.  Or, at least, some areas of it remain stubbornly underdeveloped and resistant to the evolutionary changes which the human race has undergone.  Why else would I have such difficulties in dealing with the multitudinous stresses of modern life?  My nervous system just hasn’t adapted to it.

Of course, the flip-side is that if it weren’t for the computer then I wouldn’t be able to be sharing this with you now.  Nor would I be able to do my shopping on-line, thus minimising one of the other sources of stress in my life.  Like many things, it’s a double-edged sword.  I just have to be careful not to stab myself or slice off my own limbs whilst manically, and carelessly, waving the thing about.

Humour Me

Do you know that people with Asperger's don't have a sense of humour? I wish someone had told me before I bothered to develop one. It might have saved me a lot of hassle, especially when it comes to trying to convince people that I am autistic: “You mean you understood the joke? I’m sorry, but you can’t be autistic then. Oh, and you’re a woman too? Well, you definitely can’t be one. Everyone knows it’s a man thing.”

What, even though I can’t multi-task to save my life; I do facts not feelings; I have about as much intuition (feminine or otherwise) as a pile of elephant poo; I have linear thinking so if you tell me to do something I’ll do it, but don’t expect me to think beyond your literal instructions and do anything more than what you asked of me; my astounding lack of sensitivity is legendary; and I think about sex most of the time?

Or perhaps I don’t have one at all? Maybe that thing which I think of as my sense of humour is actually something else which I’ve misidentified (it wouldn’t be the first time!) That would explain why most people don’t recognise when I’m being funny – that’s funny “ha ha”, as opposed to funny “peculiar”. Apparently most people have no problem in recognising in me the latter.

No, it must be true. It comes from the highest authority - neurotypicals. I even read a quote from a psychiatrist who stated that we don’t have one, and therefore Albert Einstein couldn’t be one of us because he did. Well of course that would negate all the other evidence to the contrary. Stands to reason. ‘Nuff said.

Does this mean, then, that anyone found wanting in the humour department has Asperger’s? My God, think what that could mean: the number of autistics could have multiplied dramatically overnight. We could be taking over the world, and nobody would know about it! And think how much easier it would make diagnosis: “No sense of humour? Definitely autistic.”

I would like to say something to those people who have stereotyped us all as lacking in wit – “You’ve got to be kidding! I’m an autistic in a predominantly non-autistic society, for fuck’s sake. What bigger joke can there be than that?!” Of course there are those on the autistic spectrum who don’t have a sense of humour, but that’s not all of us. Hell, there are plenty of humourless buggers in neuro-land but no-one holds it against them. Instead they give them large salaries and put them in positions of power.

If it weren’t for my sense of humour I’d be completely round the bend by now, or possibly have tripped off this mortal coil and be floating around in the ether playing jokes on people in the corporeal world. Ooh, I could haunt séances and try communicating with the living, see if it’s any easier now that I’m dead. Probably would be. One of God’s little ironic jokes, no doubt.

Did you see that? That was humour, that was - for those of you who have trouble spotting it, without me having to signpost it with yet another exclamation mark! Apparently my wit is very dry, which is why so many people don’t get it. I could try the opposite, I suppose, except that I’m not quite sure what that would be – wet wit, perhaps? Is that where people spit a lot when telling jokes? Or do they deluge you with them, which makes you feel like you’re drowning (or wish you were, they’re so bad!)?

I guess I needn’t get too despondent though. After all I’m in great company: even God gets painted as a humourless bugger by some people. I think I’d have lost my sense of humour by now if I’d been burdened with the responsibility for taking care of the human race! I wonder whether S/He gets paid a large salary to run the universe (expense account included)?

Ah well. Best return to my humourless existence, then, back to the gloomy place I share with Eeyore, before someone spots that I’ve escaped for a few hours of wanton jocularity, and questions my dubious claim to being autistic.