The careers advice

Pip has been turned down for next year's college course. It's not good news.

He was studying a first diploma course in computer software development, whatever that means, on a college day release course. His tutor, Ali proudly boasted his ignorance of Asperger's, which was surprising given his own poor communication skills.

We spent most of this spring listening to Ali changing his mind about Pip's ability in software development. Finally he told Pip that he was capable of the course and should sign himself up immediately, which Pip did. A month later, when it came to interviewing Pip for the course, Ali refused him a place, arguing that Pip was too disabled and recommending a design course instead.

Maybe Ali has discovered a talent in Pip which everyone else is ignorant of. Maybe Pip has some latent design skill waiting to be discovered but somehow I doubt it.

We are now left to search for a new course for Pip. And the courses are filling up fast so there is no time to lose. I spent this weekend with a college prospectus trying to find a suitable course.

Computer courses? He might come across Ali, and end up screaming at him.

Uniformed services? He likes the routine and order but can't cope with people telling him what to do.

Catering? He won't let his sister eat Haribo sweets because they contain gelatine, how would he cope with preparing meat?

Childcare? He wouldn't understand the needs of a small child and is too selfish.

Car maintenance? He couldn't work in a garage with other people.

Accountancy? It's mathematically based, he could work from home but he doesn't even understand the basics of finance.

Beauty? He doesn't even wash his face, hates the smell of perfume and dislikes women with make-up.

Tourism? He hates holidays and is too bloody selfish.

A levels? He's barely got any GCSEs.

I'd crossed out every course.

I picked up another copy of the prospectus and another pen and started at the beginning again, arguing that I was being too fussy.

On Monday I drove over to our local Connexions office in the nearby big town, to meet up with Susie, Pip's dedicated disability officer. The reception area was busy with posters, radio 1 blaring out from a tinny radio and the inevitable sexual health advice given prominent place. I looked around the walls, hastily searching for information which could be useful. Susie walked across the room, a young, fresh faced hippy with long, blond hair and no make up. Maybe Pip could cope with her, if he could just manage her simpering, patronising voice.

She led me into a prison cell, with high windows which filtered out the warm strong sunshine. I perched on an awkward chair pushed into the corner of the room, trying to balance a folder on my knee. 'Why've they not offered him a place on the course?' she simpered. I handed her the college letter and she argued the points one by one. 'No, you don't understand, it really isn't the right course for him, the lecturer doesn't like him and can't be bothered to help him, Pip won't ask for help and doesn't understand what they are asking of him,' I reasoned. She went back to arguing against the decision of the college. I tried another tack 'isn't there some software that can tell you what he is suited to?' 'The internet's down, I can't show you. But, there is a drop in centre in your town, he could go there and access it. Hang on,' she made a quick call, turned her beaming smile on me and announced that he could attend the centre on a Wednesday afternoon. 'Thanks, I'll make an appointment for the summer holidays,' I quipped, 'in the meantime is there something we can do sooner? I have to find a college course as soon as possible before they've all filled up.'

'What about this?' she triumphantly plucked up a flyer printed on glossy paper for a computing course in the nearby city. I looked at the paper in horror, trying so hard to look interested and enthusiastic. My eyes fell on the title 'Customer Service in Computing'. Without comment, I turned the page to discover that she was seriously suggesting that I take Pip out of his caring, organised, specialist school and throw him into a 20 week course training him up to provide support and excellent customer service. How could I explain to her that Pip couldn't provide support to anyone? How could I tell her that Pip didn't want to work with other people, let alone work for them? I put the flyer in my folder, mumbling 'very interesting, I'll contact them tomorrow morning and ask if they can modify the course so the emphasis isn't on support and service for a customer.' If she recognised the irony then it didn't register.

Bugger it, I'd have to solve this problem myself.

That evening Pip came home and I broached the subject to him. 'Oh, it's easy, I know exactly what I want to do. I'm going to study politics at A level, go on to University, then join the army for a few years. I'm not physically fit so I'll chose a non-combat role like intelligence. Then I'll work as an investigative journalist for a few years before becoming an MP. I think I'll be an MP in the North East. I can see myself settling down there.' I took a deep breath, ready to explain to him that he couldn't study A levels without five GSCEs, he had never written an essay in his life, couldn't see the other side in any argument, wouldn't be accepted by the army, had the wrong temperament for a journalist and had such poor communication skills that he would never make an MP. Apart from that, it was a cast iron plan. Hell, I couldn't upset his plans so I just left it.

Two days later I was on the way to Pip's school, to an appointment with a real Connexions officer, with a bag of notes and plans beside me.

Glenn sat there in a corner of the sixth form centre, confidant in his knowledge of the children and their disabilities. 'I've already spoken to Pip, he's a charming young man who knows exactly what he wants to do. Very communicative, considering his disability.' I handed him my sheets of half baked plans and ideas, he scanned them before the room suddenly flooded with sixth formers. 'Let's go outside and have a walk round while we discuss his plans' he suggested.

The school grounds are surrounded by trees, some remnant of an ancient forest. I confidently trotted around at his heels as he poured out his valuable advice. Damn, I couldn't make notes out there. 'What are your ultimate plans? Have you looked at life skills colleges? He's a fine lad but he could do with some intense independence skills.' I nodded in agreement, glad to show I had done my homework, worrying about finance. 'Of course you would have to get your home Connexions officer to plan out a case for Pip to attend college. That's why it would be best for him to study politics at A level, don't let him study too many A levels or he will be considered too able to attend a life skill college. One, maybe two A levels should be enough. Did you say maths as well? Is he good at maths?' 'But..but... he's useless at essay writing and he hasn't got the GCSEs for A level and the college says he has to sign up for four A levels, which he really can't do.' 'Don't worry, he's keen on politics, your education authority is paying for the course so results don't matter and you are right, he can't do four A levels, I'll get his teacher to negotiate about that and if they still say no then we can sign him up to four and cancel two of them the next day. Don't worry, leave it with his head of department.'

By that time we were halfway round the field, coming up to the group of dyspraxic teenagers practising their running skills. 'He won't make an MP of course but it's good to have a plan and he can always work in politics without becoming an MP. We can get him supported employment. I'll send a report to your Connexions officer, detailing our plans.' We were walking back to the sixth form centre by then 'just time to fill Pip's speech therapist in with the details, then I'd best be off.'

Minutes later, Pip and I were walking back to the car. I had a spring in my step and the sun was beating down on my back. I suddenly realised that all my worries about Pip's future were somehow sorted.

The next morning, as I was tidying up the table I came across my folder. As I lifted it up a sheet of glossy paper fell out. Picking it up, I shook my head, how was I going to tell Susie that this boy isn't going to take up her kind offer of customer service training?

The Man of Straw

The madness continues and I'm getting sucked back into it. I live it hourly, I dream it and I can't escape. I hate it, I long to close the door on it and compartmentalise it but I know that this time it won't go until my financial settlement is over.

Pip is still incandescent with fury over his proposed re-assessment. He blamed me for allowing it to happen but my other children are only too painfully aware that when their father demands something, I haven't got the emotional strength to refuse him. He has a strength of will which is awesome.

My solicitor, Mr Harker, is getting increasingly frustrated with the demands of my ex-husband, Jay. It started simply enough, we had to prove that a four year old diagnosis of a life long affliction was still correct. Within days Jay had changed his existing demands, Pip had to need 24 hour care, seven days a week. I rang up Dee, who ran a care home and a care agency. 'Don't be stupid, he would have to be in intensive care to be classed as needing twenty four hour care. If he needed that level of support then social services would have to provide a proportion of it, you couldn't ever go to bed. You would only have to prove that you provide an average of thirty five hours of care a week, just like the Carer's Allowance specifies. And you do that easily.' But I knew that Jay Asperger would demand more.

As the days wore on, I became increasingly angry with myself for being sucked back into his demanding world. I could feel his control and it made me sick. Then the nightmares started.

It would start simply enough. I would be standing by the window in the sitting room, it was early evening and I was alone in the room. I heard a noise behind me and turned to find Jay sitting on the couch. I would find myself crying as I watched him, inert and unresponsive, sitting staring blankly ahead, just like he used to. I tried to shoo him out of the house but he carried on, staring into the distance, cold and rigid. As I tried to make him leave the children would suddenly appear, stare aghast at their father and start screaming that I had let them down, how could I let him back in again after all he had done to hurt us? The spell would break and I would find myself alone in bed, my eyes wet with tears, my mouth shaping my apology to the children and my heart racing. I would lie there, too scared to fall back to sleep, listening to the sounds of Pip screaming out in the night, until the first light of dawn would creep under the window blind and I would fall asleep, secure in the knowledge that Jay wasn't part of my life anymore. But the dreams would carry on. This time I would be lying in bed and my arm, numb with tiredness would stretch across the bed, until it hit something solid. It was Jay, getting into bed after hours of watching TV, I could tell by his responsiveness that he sensed I was awake and was edging towards me. I could feel his breath on my shoulder as he pulled back the bedclothes and I knew his next words would be 'fancy a bit of anal?' as he reached over, feeling for my breasts. I felt sick, his skin was sweaty and his breath was alcohol fumes. I would wake up, bolt upright in bed ready to run away, my heart galloping.

The Sunday following the court case I arranged to meet a group of friends and acquaintances in the pub. Pip ran home, scared at the idea of meeting up with so many people. I went in to apologise for my absence, walking straight up to their noisy, lively corner without buying a drink. Alison beckoned me over to an empty seat beside her and I stumbled through my apology, knowing she would understand about Pip. 'You look tired, how are you?' she gently cooed. I was halfway through my story, with tears burning my cheeks before I realised what I was doing. I sobbed for half an hour, faces desperately trying to look away and spare me the indignity and embarrassment of knowing I was being watched. Caroline reached over with a packet of paper handkerchiefs, pressing them generously into my soggy hand, worried that Pip had been hurting me. The mother of an acquaintance, a nurse, tried to calm me down and between them, they carefully dried me out and gave me the strength to walk back out of the pub, ready to face Pip's anger.

That evening Nina walked into town to meet her friends. Alex, bored with the TV, went to bed early with Pip, the two of them squabbling in the bathroom, their mouths full of toothpaste lather. I sat down in front of the computer, ready to research more life skills colleges for Pip but the tears which I had managed to hide from the children started rolling down my cheeks. I sat there in the half light, too tired and upset to use the computer, too miserable to move to the couch. Eventually I went upstairs and washed my tear stained face, but I looked in the mirror and saw the sad, lonely women I was becoming and the tears started afresh. I turned and found Nina, who had quietly crept up on me, expecting to chat about her evening. 'What's wrong?' her face contorted in concern and the whole sorry tale about how I was feeling trapped and controlled by Jay came tumbling out. 'Don't worry,' she whispered as she led me to the edge of my bed, 'we've come so far since he left, we've managed so much now he isn't a part of our lives. We are so much happier now he's gone. Do you think I'd be like this if he was still here? We're no longer scared of him. It's just a temporary thing, it's the last burst of his power, it will soon be all over and he'll never come back.' But I knew he would do everything in his power to keep that control, he'd already argued about everything he could think of in the previous mediation, in letters to my solicitor and in previous court hearings. He wasn't going to relinquish his power so easily. That night the nightmares continued and he was within a hair's breadth of touching me before I woke up.

The next morning the mental health worker phoned to arrange an appointment to see Pip. I burst into tears, much to her surprise. I sat there, incoherently babbling to her about Jay and she tried to restore order into the conversation and bring the appointment forward. I sobbed my thanks to her, put the phone down and found I couldn't stop. For hours the tears flowed, allowing Pip the joyful opportunity of accessing the computer without fear of me seeing him. He spent an idyllic morning signing his father up to random, eccentric political party emails, offering his father's support for minority candidates, requesting a personal visit, asking for details on direct debit giving.

Nina and Alex became concerned about my tears, taking it in turns to comfort me. Pip, aware that we were all otherwise occupied, turned his attention to the kitchen, ladling huge spoonfuls of sugar into weak coffee and gulping it down thankfully, making himself plates of noodles, gleefully adding handfuls of salt. I continued sobbing.

I tried to distract myself, playing stupid, inane games on the computer but the tears kept flowing. I tidied up the kitchen after Pip's recent attack, throwing away the empty sugar bag and wiping up the spilled salt, but it made no difference to my tears. Pip walked in, to find me sobbing, 'are you cutting onions or are you upset?' he said mechanically. 'I'm sorry, I'm upset, I feel as if Jay is back, controlling me and I'm scared.' 'I hate the bastard. He's evil and he won't buy me car insurance! Let's drive over there, I can put a bat through his car windscreen and we can steal his wife's car to get away in,' he laughed but I know that when Pip says he will use a baseball bat there is always the threat that he really will. That evening we ate pizza.

The next morning I was up early, ready to bundle Pip into his taxi. He mumbled retribution through his breakfast, watching to see for the taxi. As we walked to the door he was reminding me that he needed to phone back Jeremy Kyle and tell him Jay's office number. 'Don't contact him, don't sign him up for anything, don't get him any angrier than he is, please.' I begged him, but Pip was already planning a daily dose of emails and text alerts. 'I could sign him up for the London Underground texts alerts, they cost twenty pence a go and on a bad day he could get tens of them' he eagerly chattered as he ran off up the drive.

I shut the front door and busied myself, taking care not to turn on the radio and listen to sad news. But the tears were soon rolling down my cheeks. Damn! And I needed to take Alex to the shops to buy some more PE trainers. By midmorning the crying hadn't stopped, I reached over to the phone and dialed the number I had carefully written on the note pad.

'Hello, is that Women's Aid? This sound so stupid but my husband left five years ago, I was absolutely fine, then I had to see him in court last Friday and he shouted at my solicitor and accused me of saying hearsay when I was describing my son's disability. I dream he's come back in my life and he's controlling me again. He used to shout at me all the time, he didn't hurt me, it wasn't proper abuse but I hated it.' The words poured out, remembering past hurts, fears and worries. I sat there sobbing for an hour as she quietly listened to all my woes, gently reassuring me and affirming my story. 'B..b..but he's a lecturer in a university, he's remarried. I'm unemployable and I'm not even in a relationship. He used to say I was the one with the problems, not him. Professional men don't abuse their wives.' 'It takes all sorts, we have wives of highly paid professionals on our books. And besides, research shows that these men don't stop abusing just because they have moved on to another wife.' she sounded so authoritative but understanding that the crying continued afresh. Within minutes she had arranged for me to receive counselling. 'Do you want to tell me more, or do you want to rest now?' she gently questioned. 'I'm fine now,' I blubbered 'but I will look forward to the counselling.'

I stopped the crying long enough to get Alex into town and buy him some trainers.

By Friday Pip and Alex were both back in school and Nina was enjoying one last day of freedom. I arranged an appointment with my doctor and the normally placid and self-controlled Mrs Asperger blubbered her story to him as he calmly made notes, politely ignoring the damp mark which was growing on his desk and the increasing humidity in the room. 'You won't take drugs, I know you,' he briskly stated before booking me in with Natalie, the surgery counsellor 'we can't leave you in this state, she'll help you.'

On the way home, I took fifty pounds out of my bank account, not noticing I'd lost it until later that evening. I arrived home in time for a phone call from the head of Pip's sixth form, Aaron, anxious to explain to me his side of the sad story of the day. Pip had been invited on a filming trip to a local ruin, bored and unable to cope with the lack of structure to the day, he had entertained himself by throwing stones, shouting abuse at his teacher, goading the other children and finally running off, to be cajoled back into the car and driven back to school as he accused Aaron of paedophilia. By the end of the day, Aaron's crimes had been increased to finger wagging in Pip's direction, one of the most evil crimes anyone can be accused of. Between us, we laughed it off, or rather Aaron and I did, Pip was clearly in no mood to forgive and forget.

Nina told me a complicated story involving the class bitch, a party in one of the worst restaurants in the town and no friends she could sit next to. Within minutes I was arranging a meal in the nearest Wetherspoons, only it couldn't be the local Wetherspoons, in case someone saw her and was wondering why she didn't go to the bitch's party. It had to be far away, but nearby, so she could walk up to meet her friends after the meal. Before I knew it, Jordan, the neighbour's son was deciding what he would eat and Alex was deciding on a car seating plan. But it just wasn't my day, the pub was busy, we couldn't find a table, it took ages to be served, I discovered that my wad of notes had fallen out of my bag, then Pip had to leave the pub because it was too noisy, preferring to sit in my car outside. We rushed through our meal, anxious to see what Pip was getting up to and drove home in time for Nina to go out.

The next day Pip phoned up his father thirty times, telling him he was a bastard and he hated him. Each time the phone was put down on him. By lunchtime his dad was threatening to come round. 'You can't, we are all under police protection,' came Pip's reply. 'Why? Who's done that, I'm going to phone them up and tell them it's wrong, I'm not allowing that. I'll sort this nonsense out' said that increasingly agitated and angry Jay. But Pip was a match for him 'hang on a second, I've got the non-emergency number for the police, just ask for the domestic abuse team.'

By two o'clock Jay was threatening Pip with the police. I ordered him to leave the man alone, taking care to station myself between him and the phone. My order lasted until four o'clock, when I turned my back and heard the familiar click of the phone. That night Pip emailed his new step-mother to tell her that Jay lies and kicks me.

On Tuesday Pip argued with Aaron at school again. It was all a storm in a teacup which Pip could recite word-perfectly by home time but I knew Aaron would be at a loss to tell me what had caused the argument. The phone call came later than usual and I sat down, ready to laugh at Pip's antics but Aaron was in no mood for laughing 'I'm sorry Mrs Asperger, it's the call I hate making and I don't know how to say it really. Pip applied for the follow-on course at college for next year, we had a meeting with the staff at the college yesterday, they've refused him a place. It wasn't just because of the incident when Pip hit the other boy. They said he couldn't cope with the study.'

I sat down numb, the following two years of my life had been built around Pip going on the computing course. I knew it would be hard for him but he had so wanted to do it, his college tutor had recommended him for it and now he was turning him down. We chatted about the implications, my hand shaking as I wrote down hurried, meaningless notes, repeating that he had been told by the college to apply. 'They suggest he changes to graphics.' 'But, but he can't do graphics, he's the least artistic person in the universe. He's not up to it, he'd get bored and he wouldn't understand what they wanted him to do,' I reasoned. 'Well yes, I thought that. We need to meet up and discuss his options. I'll phone you tomorrow and arrange something. I'm sorry about all this, will you tell him?' 'He's got an interview at the college tomorrow, I'll have to tell him before then, he'd be too disappointed.'

I went to sit beside Pip, took a deep breath and told him the news. By the next morning he had emailed a formal complaint about the tutor to the college, written a death threat on facebook (I breathed a sigh of relief that the tutor couldn't read it), shouted at me, threatened to confront the tutor the next morning and flounced out of the house.

That morning Pip's speech therapist phoned me, could I come over in about an hour and a half and we could all meet up and discuss what to do with Pip? I drove like the wind, stopping off at Alex's school to drop off the front door keys and a note telling him I would come home later that evening.

We met in the headteacher's office and I made a conscious effort not to cry. There were four of us, huddled together. As we talked through Pip's problems, a hooded head appeared through the window, stared at us then sloped off. 'That's not one of ours, what's he doing on site?' the headteacher walked towards the window 'are there workmen on site?' In one movement she was on the phone, questioning what he was doing. It was clear that wandering children, strange hooded figures and suspicious activities were all part and parcel of a special school and it was clear that the staff were well prepared. Within minutes, the man was escorted off site by two insistent men but the headteacher was watching every move on the field, talking to us with her body turned to the window.

The meeting over, Aaron guided me to the sixth form area, chatting away as we went. 'He's one of our two most difficult students, I have to be honest. Do you remember when he stood outside, refusing to come into school for two days, and I can't even remember what he was protesting about.' My mind flashed back to cold days in winter, with Pip phoning me up, breathless with excitement, he was on a protest, what was it about? I had vague memories of him complaining about one of his teachers, was it Aaron? Bright, funny, charming Aaron, so friendly and chatty, sociability coming so easily to him. No wonder he and Pip didn't get on, one couldn't understand how you make friends and the other couldn't understand how you couldn't make them. Aaron guided me to his office, 'we spent an hour together with Pip's speech therapist, listing why Pip was angry with me and deciding what I had done wrong. He says I wagged my finger at him, is that a particular crime to him?' 'Punishable by the death penalty,' I laughed, enjoying his light hearted company but my mind skipped back to Dr Asperger's incredible demands. 'You know his father is accusing me of making up his diagnosis just to land a meal ticket. He will have to be assessed' 'I know, he keeps on telling us. But you've got a diagnosis, it's for a lifelong condition, it can't be cured, he's got it for life.' he reasoned. A cloud passed over head and I felt suddenly cold, 'I know, ' I shivered.

I spent the rest of the afternoon at the college, asking the special needs department for advice. I found myself laughing as we discussed some of Pip's eccentricities, the insistence upon routine, the inability to entertain himself, his sensory issues and his refusal to ask for help. Pip must have heard me as he skipped out of the college, 'I texted you, didn't you get it, I told you the tutor was a bastard. Why didn't you reply?' he gushed, unaware of my companions. I changed the subject, apologising to the receptionist who stared in amazement at Pip.

On the Saturday morning Pip called me, his voice squeaking with excitement, 'come quick, I've got a response from Andrea. But it doesn't make sense, she says lots of things which aren't true. She knows they are lies and she believes him. Come and read this:

Dear Pip,

I needed some time to think before I replied to your email.

I am not sure why you know details about your parent’s financial circumstances or information about their current court hearings. The fact that you do worries me. Under no circumstances would I dream about asking my parents what their financial circumstances are. The fact that you are writing to me about such information is of deep concern to me.

What is happening between your Mother and Father in relation to their finances is their responsibility and for them to sort out between the two of them.

Your Father and I have discussed starting a family.

I know that you have educational needs. At the moment this means that your Mother chooses not to go out and earn a living.

I have worked with young people who are severely disabled (in wheel chairs) and their Mothers went to work. I have disabilities but these do not stop me from going to working either.

It is very sad that you blame your Father for everything that has gone wrong between your Mother and Father. There are always two sides to every story and nothing in life is black and white. Perhaps one day you will bother to find out.

I know that your Father is a kind, caring and loving man.

Your Father and I have a very happy life together and we do not row or get angry with each other.

Pip, it important to remember that nothing in life is straight forward. Showing forgiveness and compassion for both your Mother and Father is important; they are going through a tough time.

We can only do the best we can… we are all human.

I know that your Mother will read this email.

Regards,
Andrea

By the time that I got to the computer Nina was already there, her face getting redder and redder. 'This is so annoying, I can't believe she wrote that. How can she say that about there being two sides to every story when she's never heard ours. She's never had to live with his temper, she's implying that it was just as much your fault that he hurt you and shouted at you. Did she get left outside bookmakers? Was her father drunk? He's threatening to stop paying maintenance for me in three months time, I've applied for university and she's saying that I have no right to know that. How many times have you had to say to us that you can't afford something because you haven't got any money. That woman had no right to write that to us. And she's rude to poor Pip. I'm going to reply to her just to put the record straight.' I had visions of years of emails going back and forth with Nina and Andrea writing increasingly indignant messages to each other, Nina anxious to protect her own sanity, wanting someone to admit what we had suffered and Andrea carefully protecting the man she loved so fiercely.

For one brief moment I looked at Pip, scowling at his computer and I thought that's what I want, I want a woman like Andrea for my son. Then I remembered that I had been that woman for Jay. I had anxiously protected him from criticism and denied the truth, that he wasn't a man, he was a two dimensional cut out, a man of straw.

LIfe on Pluto - a morning revisiting my old life.

We went to court and Jay Asperger had his day of glory. Well, at least that's what I assume he thinks happened. In truth, he was his usual pathetic self.

It started late on Thursday evening, with a phone call from my solicitor. 'Hello Mrs Asperger, it's Paul Harker here. I'm sorry to disturb you so late but I was wondering if you have any recent evidence that Pip will need lifelong care?' 'I'm sorry, I haven't but it's a lifelong affliction. Even the Department of Work and Pensions assumes it is. Even the NAS website says it's lifelong. I can print out the web page if it will help.' 'Thanks and I'll meet you at quarter past nine tomorrow.'

It sounded ominous, Jay Asperger was obviously coming out fighting. I didn't sleep a wink that night.

The next morning, I drove to the court in the nearby city and met a breezy Mr Harker in the foyer. We went to a small room and set to work. Jay had emailed a financial offer the previous evening. I scanned the document and I would have cried for him, if I had recognised an iota of truth in it. He detailed his depression, which had started the minute he left the marital home, kicked out by a selfish, callous wife. It had peaked in 2008, the year when he remarried, necessitating six weeks of recuperation. There aren't many men who marry a rich, younger woman and feel depressed, but this one managed it. Her honeymoon must have been as disappointing as mine. Poor sod!

He wrote that his new marriage was in dire straights because I repeatedly refused to sell the marital home and give him half of the proceeds. His new wife's extended family were so concerned about his inability to provide any cash that it was causing friction in their little feathered nest. Besides, at 51 and 44 respectively, they wanted to sell their three bedroomed home and buy something bigger, so they could start a family. I gasped in horror 'Asperger's is genetic, it's hereditary and it is more likely in older fathers. Besides, she's 44' Mr Harker replied 'at 44 it's still theoretically possible.' I was piqued, so quipped 'at my age it's still theoretically possible, I'm more concerned what they would breed.'

We went back to our study. I ploughed through his assertions that I was letting the house go to rack and ruin, which clearly indicated that I couldn't look after the family. The house needed to be sold immediately, in order to protect his investment. 'That hurts,' I said 'the house was a mess when he left. In fact, he was the one who took the double glazing out of the sitting room window. I've spent a fortune on the things which count, like the plumbing and the central heating.' Mr Harker duly noted my comments then walked towards the door 'I'll just go down and have a chat with him, I won't be long, I'll leave all the paperwork here and be back before we go in.'

He wasn't long, he came back almost immediately after, sitting down and hastily writing with his usual fountain pen. 'He won't talk. But he has got a nasty temper on him. He appeared so polite and relaxed, I asked him something and he immediately became angry. Litigants in person are always trouble.'

Time passed quickly and soon we were being ushered into the court room, a large, bland office. Within minutes, Jay had started his tirade. 'I've never seen any diagnosis for Pip, I have no proof that he has Asperger's Syndrome.' The judge looked at me and I quietly confirmed that Dr Asperger had been sent a copy of the diagnosis after it had been made. I offered to show him the relevant part of Pip's speech therapy report, where he was described as have a high degree of Asperger's Syndrome. Jay snatched the report up and sneered 'there's no date on this, it isn't valid' I timidly said 'it was written for his SENDIST tribunal, in 2006.' 'Yes well, it's out of date. He may have had it when the diagnosis was made but I don't think it is current. He phoned me last year and told me he attends army cadets and has friends. He hasn't got Asperger's now.'

I sat and listened in shock. He was using his ignorance and indifference to argue a pathetic, stupid case. I took a deep breath and squeaked out 'May I just say a word about that please?' The judge nodded.

'You speak of friends, he doesn't understand the meaning of the word. He thinks they are friends but they shout down the street at Nina and Alex 'Your brother's a retard!' One of them was so persistent that I had to complain to the local high school and he was excluded for two days.

He's in a special school, the second one in four years. The last one couldn't cope with him and he had to leave. He wouldn't speak to his teacher last term, having to be excused from lessons. He has been on a behavioural management plan for three of his four years at specialist schools. He regularly runs away and has to be kept away from some children because they bully him. He recently hit a boy in college and has a black mark on his record because of it.'

'Well, that's enough evidence to convince a court that Pip will need support in adult life' said the judge.

'Yes, well' droned Jay, in his best keeping-his-temper voice 'I'm sorry but I'm an engineer. I deal in facts and truths, that is just hearsay. I don't deal in hearsay. I need evidence.'

'Do I understand that you object to the evidence Mrs Asperger has just presented, which would be enough to convince a court?' questioned the judge. I was beginning to warm to his common-sense.

'I only deal in facts and truths, this is just hearsay, there is no evidence.'

'So you are suggesting that Pip undergoes further assessment. He must have had quite a lot of assessments over the last few years. I'm rather concerned about the effect of this on Pip's mental health. I don't think it will be good for him.'

But Jay could smell success, he was inches away from stopping me from applying for maintenance, as the previous judge had ruled. 'We need an up-to-date, correct diagnosis.'

'Very well, I will direct that Pip has to be reassessed,' the judge shook his head and started writing 'Mrs Asperger, will you pay half the costs of the assessment?' Thus I found myself agreeing to pay for an assessment, by a second rate psychologist, for a diagnosis I didn't dispute. Bastard!

The case was postponed for another six months, so that Pip could meet another stranger. I knew I was lining up trouble for myself, so I made a last ditch effort to limit the damage. 'When Dr Asperger insisted upon a further valuation, Pip became very upset and I had to calm him down for a week beforehand. He was very distressed by it all and he took his anger out on me. It seems unfair that I have to bear the brunt of his distress and I know how much this will upset him. Could Dr Asperger write to Pip and explain to him why he is insisting upon the assessment, please?'

'Oh no, I cannot insist upon that,' said the arbiter of justice. Mr Harker concurred. Jay moaned 'He won't talk to me, there's nothing I can do' and that was that, male arrogance ganging up against me, the only one who really cared about the child's well being.

Within seconds we were out of that bland, horrid room, bustling amongst the throng in the reception area. I turned my head to Mr Harker 'I told you Jay Asperger was a wanker'. 'Don't waste your compliments on the man' came the instantaneous reply.

We walked back to the shopping centre; me loping along in ridiculously high heeled shoes and the petit Mr Harker walking neatly beside me. I cursed my choice of shoes, damn, I should have chosen some which didn't highlight the height difference. I needed him to feel sorry for me and it isn't easy for a short man to feel sorry for a huge, galumping woman who towers above him. 'Don't think he behaves like that because he hates me, that's what he was like when he was supposedly happily married' I moaned, rather deflatedly. 'Yes, he's not a nice man, you were wise to get out.' he replied as we parted.

I phoned Nina, to prepare her for my return, the financial settlement no further advanced, begging her not to tell Pip the news.

The drive back was a relief, time to recharge my batteries in preparation for Pip's reaction. I drove into the drive and Alex opened the door immediately. 'How are you, did you see him? Was he nasty? Are you ok? Was it awful?' His arm went round me and he guided me into the house. Jordan, the neighbour's son was hovering in the sitting room. 'I dunno what's wrong, but come here,' he said as he wrapped me in a huge bear hug. I started crying but Pip came over, launching into the swearing which is becoming increasingly common in him 'The bastard, what's he said, why hasn't he made an agreement, the evil bastard, I'll go round and smash his face with a baseball bat.' 'You'll do no such thing,' I warned 'we didn't make a settlement because he's disputing your disability. He wants you to have another assessment.' I looked up at him anxious for a response. I got it, he ran out screaming abuse at me, along the path to the drive. I stopped to talk to Nina, then marched out after him 'Pip, I'm sorry, it's not my fault. I don't need the assessment, I've already got the diagnosis.'

'You've got to give it to him, then he won't need to have me assessed. He shouted, tears running down his face 'it's all your fault, you didn't tell him.'

'I gave him a copy of the diagnosis when it was done, back in 2005. He's already seen it, he doesn't believe it, he says you are cured now.'

'It's not true, I hate my life, I hate having Asperger's, I hate being like this and now he's saying that it's not true and I'm normal. The bastard!' he gripped my arm, squeezing it tightly until I gasped with the pain. I sat down beside him, holding his shoulders in my arms and gently rocking him. 'Don't worry, we can have it done here and I'm sure they will be very nice.'

'Very nice!' he spat in anger 'you said that about the last ones, that woman from the LEA, she was nasty. Then you made me go and see that nasty man in Bristol. He was horrid. I knew it as soon as I met him. He wasn't nice to me and he was so, so, so what's that word that means that he thinks he's better than me?'

'Condescending?' I hazarded a guess, the sharp stones in the drive beginning to rip my tights.

I negotiated a return to the house, calming him down as we walked. We got as far as the sitting room before he exploded again, shouting that he was going to run away, that I would never find him, that East Midlands Airport was only a few miles away. This time he ran up the stairs, he was almost at the top before I reached him and we sat on the wooden floor, cramped into two steps as he swore at me, accusing me of collusion with the enemy, his father.

Slowly we uncurled and walked down stairs. I sat down before I saw him dialling his father's number. Tired from lack of sleep, the emotions of listening to the man I had once loved arguing to save money at the expense of his own children, from quietly sitting in that dull, characterless room whilst three men, all ignorant of special needs but delighting in their over-inflated opinions of themselves, elbowed me, the one person who knew about the subject, out of the conversation, I left Pip to the call, confidant that his father would have switched his phone off, to avoid the awkward questions. But he hadn't and I listened to Pip questioning him why he had demanded the assessment when he knew it would cause upset. We had reckoned without the glibness of Jay's lies and he dismissed the accusation for what it was, a minor upset caused by a vulnerable child who he could easily dominate. Pip turned to me and told me that Jay had not made any demands at all, it was all at the insistence of the judge, totally out of the hands of Jay. Normally I would have let it go, but this time I couldn't. Jay must have heard me as I screamed that it was all a lie, 'because that was what Jay Asperger does, he lies.' He'll use it against me, he always does. I can almost hear his thought waves 'she just shouted abuse, she's like that, just screams for no reason at all.' and for one horrid moment I felt I was back in that nasty, evil little topsy-turvy world he had invented and lived in.

The Solicitor Calls

'I've just been putting a bundle of papers together for the court and there are a few questions,' came the measured tones of Mr Harker, the solicitor. 'Dr Asperger says that he is not employed by any internet betting organisation and never has been.'

'But his name is on their website, I showed it to you last time I saw you. Technically, he isn't employed by them but he is a training associate. He doesn't get paid by them but he does earn money training other people.' I blubbered, shocked at Jay's nerve. He was playing this game right to the line, staying just this side of honest and back to his usual tricks.

'Can you send me the website address please? And another thing, he says you had a trial separation of four months in 2001. Is that correct?' Mr Harker sounded surprised that I had the strength of character to separate from Jay for an appreciable amount of time.

'Does it make any difference?' I gasped in fear.

'No, don't worry, he just wrote it and I was checking with you. It really doesn't matter for the financial agreement. Did you separate?'

'No, there was no trial separation in 2001, it was in 2002.'

'Are you sure? And was it for four months?'

'I can check, I'll have it in my diary, hang on a second. I'm sure it wasn't four months and I'm sure it was in 2002.' I reached over to the shelf of old diaries, plucking up the diary for 2002. 'Anyway, I can easily prove the date, the police would have a record. He was chasing me around the house, pushing me around and threatening to kill me. Nina was so scared that she phoned 999 and the police came over.'

My mind rushed back eight years, to one winter's night in 2002. The children were in bed, asleep, we were sitting drinking wine in the sitting room. I had planned the whole evening carefully, children to bed early, favourite dinner, glass of wine to calm him down, reassurance about how much I loved him, how much I was concerned about his stress levels. He was almost taken in, at least until he realised I wasn't going to spend the evening extolling his virtues. I brought the subject round gently 'Jay, I'm a bit worried about you and Nina. You haven't spoken to her much now for months. She's getting really upset, would you like to talk about it?' I was initially proud of my subtlety. I hadn't mentioned that he was shouting at her on a daily basis, that he was pushing her out of the way in the hurry to get away from her and that I was calming her down every day, trying to stop her from crying, reassuring her that he still loved her, in spite of the evidence which was obvious to everyone. He sat up straight, staring me out, his mood suddenly changing from self preening to his silent anger.

My calm, measured approach was clearly not working but I was determined not to give up. Nina was too upset for me to let it drift on. 'You have to talk to me about it, you can't treat her like that anymore. It's cruel' He remained sitting there, motionless, angry and silent. We sat there, polarised in our respective attitudes for ages. I tried again to get him to talk but he wouldn't. I began to feel angry at him. I had spent time and money planning a cosy chat which would solve Nina's current misery. I picked up my glass of wine and threw it at him, missing him but hitting the cream curtains. By now I was upset, our voices rose, waking the children. I could hear Nina walking towards the stairs and anxiously calling down into the dark hallway 'Please don't shout at each other!'

'It's ok, Daddy and I are just having a chat. It's really not important, go back to bed, I'll be up in a minute,' I tried to reassure her but walked into the kitchen, reaching out for a coke bottle and pouring it on to the floor. Jay had followed me in and watched me, silent and angry. 'I'm going to wreck this kitchen until you talk to me, you can't just ignore it like this, we have to talk!' my voice raised to the silly, high pitched squeak I always manage to resort to when I'm angry and upset. Jay watched me as I poured the bottle on the floor, his face contorted in a grimace of hatred. I reached out to the olive oil bottle but Jay snatched it off me, screaming that he would kill me. I ran out of the room, in time for the children to come downstairs and watch him pushing me. I ran out of the house towards the car, my eyesight blurred by tears. I could hear Nina crying at Jay 'I'm going to phone the police if you don't stop, I mean it' as I jumped into the car. Jay came out and loomed over the windscreen, 'She's phoned the police, they are coming over, you'd better come indoors' he calmly said, turned and walked back in. I followed meekly, to be greeted by the children anxiously holding on to me. 'I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have done it,' sobbed Nina, 'I was so scared he was going to kill you. I'm sorry.'

The police arrived to find Jay sitting quiet and composed in the sitting room and me holding myself together, ashamed that someone had finally discovered my sad little secret. They spoke to Jay in the sitting room whilst I went into the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher. I heard them talking, with Jay's indistinct voice rising in a complaint. I was in the far corner of the kitchen when they came to talk to me. I looked away from them, unable to make eye contact. They asked me what happened and I brushed the incident aside, I tried talking to him but he couldn't talk, things got out of hand, our daughter was upset, she called the police.'

'Would you bring a prosecution with our support?'

The words shocked me, my hand shook as I shut the dishwasher door, 'He's my husband, I can't do that to him, he's going through a lot of stress at work, he can't help it, he's not normally like this, he usually just shouts, I..........'

'But that's abuse, just as much as hitting you. It's emotional abuse, you shouldn't have to put up with it. He'll only stop when you bring a prosecution and he moves out.'

But I couldn't do it. If I admitted the abuse then I admitted that I was abused and that's something that happens to pathetic, weak women. I wasn't abused, I was in control of the situation, I was strong, it's just sometimes it got a bit too much for me. I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. The policeman put his arm around me. I struggled to get free, I must not let anyone be nice to me, then I'd feel sorry for myself, be honest about the relationship I was in and give up. But there was something so kind and caring about that shoulder, and the tears started flowing. For sixteen years I had kept those tears back and finally they were released. I sobbed uncontrollably into the uniform of that nameless policeman, the corner of the room becoming a humid micro-climate of tears and strings of mucus. I knew that by acknowledging the true facts of the relationship, I had sounded its death knell, I also knew the policeman would have to put his jacket in for dry-cleaning. Here I was, a nuisance and a failure, the tears flowed more.

I dragged myself back to the present, to hear Mr Harker's voice 'Was he prosecuted?'

'No, they asked me to press charges but I couldn't, he was my husband, I couldn't do that to him.' My mind lingered on that damp, uniformed shoulder, which I could never thank enough. 'Ah, I've found it in my diary. The police came over on the first of February, he would have left on the second. He was back by the middle of April. Here, 14th April, we were in Ireland, on holiday. He organised it.'

Dublin, Spring 2002. Cold weather, hot coffee shops, the Book of Kells, the Barracks. Back to the hotel. The children falling asleep in their bedroom, the door between the two rooms slightly ajar so I could hear them if they disturbed. Nights of physical passion, me trying to wake some vestige of love in him, him merely scratching an itch. Too late to back out, having to perform my wifely duties, meeting his needs, searching for some hint that he loved me, that he cared for us, that he wanted to be with us. Continually pushing that vision of a damp, uniformed arm, a man's voice ' It's emotional abuse, you shouldn't have to put up with it.' out of my mind. Jay rolling off me, falling asleep, fulfilled. Me lying on the bed, tears slowly dribbling down the sides of my face until my hair was damp and my eyes gritty.

'About the house valuation ....'

'Ah yes, he wrote again, demanding a valuation, stressing that the judge and said he could change his mind.'

'But she didn't, I'm sure she didn't.'

'No, I don't suppose she did. But don't worry, he says she did so I've written to him, telling him that we had preempted his demand and enclosing the latest valuation. He's played straight into our hands, your new valuation is significantly less than the previous valuation.'

The Internet - a powerful communication tool

I've got another hearing of my financial settlement at the beginning of April. I'm getting nervous because I know that Jay, my ex-husband is still questioning Pip's disability. During our last hearing, in October, the judge dismissed his arguments and stated that I was entitled to financial support from him in my own right. Four months on and he is still going back over old ground.

One of the other issues cleared up during the last hearing was the value of the house. We both agreed to a valuation of £200 000 before we left court. Two months later, Jay wrote to the court, demanding a revaluation, because it had just come to his notice that a similar house along the road was for sale for £240 000. The other house doesn't come with a dyspraxic son, who breaks things and wipes him dirty hands along the walls and besides, Jay knew about that house for over a year before the court hearing but no matter.

I went to see my solicitor, the quiet and thoughtful Mr Harker, who suggested I get the house revalued to appease Jay. As I sat there, in his mahogany lined office, an oasis of calm in contrast to the rumble of traffic outside, my mind drifted to the chaos which currently fills Nina's bedroom and the cloying smell of unwashed bodies in Pip's room, 'Do we really need another valuation?' I smiled. But the charming smile of a middle-aged woman doesn't sway Mr Harker 'He's repeatedly demanded one and you don't want to delay the settlement any longer' he declared in his no-nonsense way. That was settled, I had to have the house valued within the week.

I went home and mentioned it to Nina, who was rushing through a flurry of final essays for her exams. 'I can't tidy my room this minute, I've got an essay to hand in for Friday!' I reassured her that estate agents don't run a 24 hour emergency call out service and I could book the valuation for the following Monday but she would need to tidy her bedroom over the weekend. The weekend was 48 hours away and teenagers don't have long memories, she waved my worries away with the flick of her hand, reassuring me it was all going to be OK. But I knew it wouldn't be, I still had Pip to confront.

Pip's taxi drops him off at the top of the drive and we can hear Pip before we see him, as he runs down the drive, bursting into the house exhausted and breathless from the exercise of running the short distance. I listened to his news, taking care to show elaborate interest in his problems, then I broached the subject 'I have to get the house valued next week, I need you to tidy up all the things on your floor. Would you do that for me?' He immediately exploded 'You mean someone is coming into our house to look at it? Will they go in my room?' 'Yes,' I soothed 'but don't worry, they will only pop their head round the door, they won't be long.' 'But you said no one else would come round again the last time that they came round. You lied! Why are you doing this when you know I don't like people in the house? I can't trust you! You lie!' 'I have to get a valuation, your dad's questioning the last one. He has known about the other house down the road but he's now making a fuss about it. I can't do anything else, I have to agree to the valuation. I'm sorry, I wouldn't have troubled you but I have to do this. It won't take long and they will come round when you are at school. You won't notice.' But he wasn't convinced and I couldn't calm him, so he rushed off to the computer to send his dad an email. I hoped against hope, his father hadn't seen him for five years, he might be feeling particularly generous, he might have mellowed in the intervening years, his new wife might see the upset in Pip's email and help Jay to understand that this was important to Pip. The next day I was brought back to reality with a thump. Whatever Jay had been doing in the intervening years, it certainly wasn't mellowing. The email was terse and to the point. He was taking me to court to get a financial settlement, he was giving me over a thousand pounds a month and the valuation was a legal obligation. I could feel the anger rising in me as Pip told me; Jay had always been dishonest but now he was excelling himself. I had taken him to court, he was giving me the statutory minimum amount of child maintenance, which the judge had said was insufficient and was certainly well below a thousand pounds a month and the valuation was at his repeated insistence, in spite of his previous agreement. I calmed myself down to speak to Pip but it didn't matter, he was still angry that his father was demanding the valuer came round.

In the past, I have always tried to lessen the effect of Jay's edicts, demands and selfishness, patiently trying to explain to the children that Jay has mental health problems, he loves them dearly but just can't show it. This time, I was tired of arguing the case for a man who was quietly trying to stab me in the back, so I left Pip to work his own anger out for himself. He was strangely quiet that night, which I stupidly took to be a good sign.

Pip had a smile on his face when he went off to school the next morning. It was still early, my neck was sore and I hadn't slept well, so I decided that all his problems were over and he was now just a normal teenager. How wrong could I be? When he came home he almost fell over in a rush to tell me his news 'I emailed Jay Asperger one hundred times today. He emailed me back to ask if you knew what I was doing, so I emailed him to tell him he was responsible for me as well, then he emailed back to say that as a responsible parent he was ordering me to stop. Ha, as if I would! Then I signed him up for an estate agents in Jersey, the'll text him every time a house comes on the market. Then I signed him up for another one on the Isle of Man, then one in Derby, then one in Nottinghamshire. Then I signed him up for some brochures about law, then for some hair loss treatment, then some tooth whitener, then some dog food and some cat food, I filled in the form and said he had 79 dogs and 69 cats. Then I signed him up for double glazing. They won't ever leave him alone, they'll phone him up constantly.' I sat and watched the smile on his face but I couldn't accept his behaviour without some admonition. 'I don't think you should have done that,' I muttered vaguely. 'What, sign him up for estate agents in Jersey? He didn't tell me where he wanted to live, so how was I to know he didn't want to live in Jersey? It's a very nice place, I'd like to go there this year. Can we go?' He was so chatty and happy that I couldn't tell him off, which left him with another twenty-four hours in which to sign his father up to yet more adverts. But by then, Pip's other parent had got wind of what was happening, annoyed that his command had been ignored, he threatened Pip, telling him he would regret his actions and accusing him of being manipulative and bullying. That raised my anger further, Jay was clearly now living in a parallel universe, where Jay floated on a cloud, with gossamer wings sprouting out of his back, secure in the knowledge that he never bullied or manipulated. Jay was beginning to scare me, yet again.

Two days later Pip emailed me, with a copy of an email from Jay, again threatening Pip. It was attached to an email from the Jersey estate agents, outlining the information which Pip had applied for. I emailed a calm, caring and reassuring email to Pip, taking responsibility for his behaviour and assuring him that he wouldn't get into trouble. I didn't need to, Pip was jubilant about the response, he had nettled his father, the Jersey estate agent had received his application and the tooth whitening kit would be in the post. But Jay has never lost a battle. What he lacks in common sense or empathy, he more than makes up for in amorality, self interest, determination, dishonesty and naked aggression. That night, I begged Pip to stop the harassment. He was cheerfully upbeat 'I hate him, he's mean, he lies, he used to make you cry and he used to kick you, which was wrong. But I've signed him up for everything I can think of. I've written to him and warned him that if he accuses you of any of this then I will go round to his house and beat him up. He'll be really annoyed in court....................... but he will have really white teeth!'

One of Pip's saving graces is that unlike so many of his friends, he will sometimes listen to reason and so far he has listened to my advice over this. He was clearly enjoying the fun, so I was surprised when he stopped the emails. But it isn't like that for all his friends; I still remember the night when Callum phoned us up. The calls started at nine o'clock and were still going at eleven o'clock. I eventually went to bed and left the phone downstairs. The whole house woke up when the phone rang but common sense told me not to answer, as he was just wanting a reaction from me. By eleven o'clock I suddenly realised that this was a child with both ADHD and Asperger's Syndrome. The Asperger's Syndrome would ensure that he didn't need the response of another human being in order to carry on the prank calling, the ADHD would ensure that he was too hyperactive to stop. At that point I stumbled downstairs and pulled the plug out of the wall, he could carry on calling all night, it wouldn't make any difference to me. Unfortunately, the next morning I completely forgot the excitement of the previous night and it was three days before I began to wonder why the phone hadn't rung for ages.

A Quiet Week at Home

It's been an awful week, this week. A collection of random disasters hit the Asperger home and made my week busy and my life hell.

It all started last week, when I finally plucked up the courage to look in the mirror. Sure enough, that halo of grey roots was becoming increasingly noticeable, even without my glasses. Grey roots and auburn hair just don't mix. I waited a week before I corrected the issue, simply because I lacked the time last week.

You can buy a bottle of hair dye for a few quid, pour it on your head, rub it in, wait thirty minutes, rinse off and admire a beautiful head of hair, then go off and live your life. It's that easy; too easy for a woman like me, who seems to live on complications and difficulties. I decided years ago, to just go grey. Unfortunately, Nina wouldn't let me. That was when the trouble started.

I buy auburn henna in a block, which has to be ground down, mixed with water, applied to my head, then left for hours and hours and hours as it slowly drips down my neck, staining my dressing gown. Somehow, I believe that the resultant colour, similar to Robertson's Golden Shred, looks natural and attractive. Deep down, I know it does neither.

But back to Monday morning. I had carefully arranged to spend the entire morning at home, behind closed doors, dying my hair. I could tidy up the house, which was beginning to look like a scrap heap, with piles of newspapers, clothes and sweet wrappers liberally scattered around. This was going to be a day when I cleared my to-do-list and everyone gasped at my organisational skills.

I woke up early, knocked on Pip's door to wake him, slipped downstairs, made a pile of sandwiches for all of the children, then got the henna and the electric food mill out. But the henna was too hard and the food mill broke. I picked out the largest lumps of white plastic, poured warm water into the powder, then waited for Pip to get up, eat his breakfast, then trot off to school. The taxi was due before I realised he had fallen back to sleep. I ran back upstairs and told him to hurry. By the time he finally walked downstairs, the taxi was waiting and the henna was cold.

Everything was ready and prepared before Alex and Nina came downstairs. I started applying the henna to my head but big, fat lumps of it fell onto the kitchen table and the surrounding floor. A particularly large and glutenous clump fell down my cleavage reminding me that I was still wearing my favourite nightdress, which was already spotted with the tell-tale greeny-brown gloop.

By the time that the children were leaving for school, my head was tightly wrapped in a Tesco's bag, the handles of which were flopping around my ears. I bundled my head into a towel, in case someone came to the door, then busied myself around the house. By ten o'clock I received my first phone call, it was May; 'Can I come over?' I instinctively reached up and patted my plastic bag wrapped head, apologising that I was unavailable. 'I'm sorry, I meant that I am coming over now. Rory has just phoned me, the school boiler broke down and three of them are heading towards your house, I arranged to pick them up in half an hour.' 'But my head's covered in henna, I've run out of it, I can't wash it off and put some more on later. You'll just have to look at a head full of yuck, wrapped up in a Tesco's bag.' I warned her. 'That's ok, I'm sure Georgina won't mind.' she cooed back. Georgina, the school slut was coming over. Georgina, the girl who offered her sexual favours to her male classmates and wore thick make-up to school. Bugger!

As I put down the phone, I texted Nina for advice. She replied: wash the whole lot off and don't look like a retard! But as I read it I could hear the chatter of excited and lively children walking down the drive. As I walked to the front door, I could feel the cold wet dye slowly running down the side of my face, I wiped it off with my fingers. Georgina stood with the boys, open mouthed and wary of the dressing-gown clad figure which stood before her. I gave her my most winning smile and welcomed them in. May's car pulled up on the drive.

Within minutes, I was waving May, Rory and Georgina off. I ordered Alex off to tidy his bedroom and he walked up to the computer and switched it on. I carried on, pottering around the house, picking up the sweet wrappers, piling up the newspapers and sorting out the washing. 'Can I go over to Patrick's house?' he innocently asked. 'Is Patrick's mother at home' I queried. 'No, but she won't mind.' Patrick is the naughtiest and funniest child in the class. He rarely attends lessons, usually spending his days on the corridor, pulling funny faces and giggling at his own antics. I know because Alex spends most of his days in Patrick's company, sharing the empty corridor. 'Can you believe this, May has refused to let Rory go round to Patrick's because his mother isn't home' Alex looked up from his Facebook messages, to watch me as I became increasingly flustered explaining that I didn't trust the boys in an empty house. He shook his head at my antics and turned back to his computer.

By lunchtime the streaks of henna had covered a large proportion of my face, my hands were dyed brown and the clumps had glued my nightdress to my back. I decided I had had enough and retired to the shower-room. As I finished washing my hands, the hot tap came off in my hand. I called to Alex to turn the water off at the mains. He replied that he didn't know how to, but I didn't hear him, waiting patiently by the sink, with water gushing out of the tap. Eventually I realised he hadn't even logged out of Facebook, so I walked downstairs and showed him how to turn off the stopvalve.. Soon the flow had reduced to a trickle, I put the tap back together and turned the water back on, smug in the knowledge that I didn't need a man in my life. But the smugness was short lived as the water started to pour out again. I decided to phone up my neighbour and ask if I could use her shower but a quick glimpse in the mirror, as I walked to the phone, convinced me to stay at home. I resorted to showering with the hot tap running, then turned off the stop cock. Alex looked up from the computer as I warned him I was going to the builder's merchants in the nearby town.

As I walked into the builder's merchants, I could feel the grit of unwashed henna in my hair but it was the same colour as my newly dyed hair, I could get away with it. I walked to the display of bathroom taps, looking for sink taps which would look out of place in a public toilet. There weren't any, I looked again, reading through the 'bath tap' stickers. The assistant came up and helped me. Sure enough, there were no traditional sink taps in the display. She wandered off to her computer, then reassured me that there might be the odd tap in the warehouse. I waited with mounting anxiety, wandering over to the kitchen tap display, to keep myself occupied. One hundred pounds and bathroom and kitchen taps later, I drove home.

The hot tap was easy to change, the hardest part was searching for the tools in the garage. Emboldened by my success, I turned to the cold tap. It wouldn't budge. I sprayed it with WD40, until I became dizzy and intoxicated, but no success, it was locked tight. Never mind, I still had the kitchen tap to replace and this looked quite exciting. I reached under the sink and stretched towards the back of the unit, scattering pans as I did so. But the base of the tap wasn't there; I stuck my head in the cupboard to look at the tap but it was behind the sink, rammed into a tiny space, far too small to put my hand in, let alone turn the nut.

It was nearly four o'clock, time to collect Nina from her piano lesson. I drove to the teacher's house, reflecting on my lack of achievement. As I drove into the farmyard I could see Nina walking awkwardly towards me in a monstrous pair of Wellington boots. My heart sank as she climbed into the car and I screeched 'You've not just had a piano lesson in Wellington boots, have you?' 'Don't worry, it's a farm house, everyone wears boots here', she tried to reassure me 'I was over at Cannock Chase this afternoon, on a Geography field trip, I was in a hurry, I took the boots off as I walked into the house.' 'Oh yes, of course, how did the trip go?' I asked absent-mindedly. 'We didn't do much, there was a man lying on the floor, he's been savaged by an Alsatian dog and the dog's owner just ran off. We had to see to him and wheel his bike to the visitor's centre.' Nina was off, recounting the gruesome details of the incident.

The following day, Alex came home and muttered something about the class cover supervisor being sexist but I was too busy cooking to listen properly. On Wednesday he came home in tears, having been kicked off the football team. I listened as he sobbed that it was punishment for being rude to the cover supervisor the previous day. 'But you said she was being sexist. What happened?' and I listened to a long and drawn out story about the woman chatting to a group of girls at the front of the class, packing in forty minutes of fashion and style advice to the silly little girls. Alex, surprisingly well behaved and keen to work, asked her to keep the noise down, which she steadfastly refused to do. Alex put his pen down and turned to his friend, competing with the cover supervisor to keep up the most inane conversation. But by that time, she was keen to return to her role of behaviour manager and she told Alex to be quiet. Alex, my strong willed and determined Alex, was incensed and loudly accused her of sexism but she complained to his form teacher, who kicked him off the football team.

It took seven minutes to drive to Alex's school, park and loudly request a meeting with the form teacher, the head of year, or the head-teacher. The secretary, ready to pack up and go home, looked a bit bemused but rang round staff, desperately searching for someone who could appease this middle aged (and well henna'd) ball of fury. The head of year, clearly used to such experiences and diplomatic as ever, calmed me down and promised a full investigation. I felt almost calm as I drove home, meeting Pip's taxi on the drive.

Pip bounded out of the taxi and ran up to me 'what's wrong? Is everything ok?' he anxiously demanded. 'Oh, it's ok, I just nipped up to Alex's school. How was your day?' I casually asked him. 'I've punched another boy, they are going to kick me out of college. There was this teacher, called John, he was speaking to me, he said I could get kicked out. Kim wasn't there, she was looking after Laura, she took her back to school, I was on my own, I told them I had Asperger's, he wasn't nice to me.' it all came tumbling out incoherently. 'Don't worry, let's go in and discuss it over dinner.' I said as I put my arm around his hunched figure and guided him into the house. Within minutes the whole sorry tale had been recounted, plans drawn and labelled with his odd, dyspraxic handwriting, unclearly detailing their positions and relative movements in the minutes which led up to the punch.

On Friday, Alex's teacher reassured me that the cover supervisor had been sexist and inappropriate but would be attending a behaviour management course in the near future. Pip's teacher phoned me to tell me that there would be a full investigation into his incident and he would probably receive a formal reprimand but would remain on the course. Pip came home looking anxious and glum but Alex was crowing. 'I blackmailed a cover supervisor' he boasted, 'she was being sexist. She wouldn't tell a girl off for being rude but told us off, so I threatened to tell the head of year. She agreed to drop it but the girl was terrified I would blab and she would have to go to the head of year. She was wetting herself!'

I've set myself the task of turning Alex's behaviour around this weekend, it's going to be a long, hard slog.

An appointment with a psychologist

I met a psychologist last week. At least, she told me she was a psychologist but in fact she looked and talked like a sixth former from the local school. Perhaps she was both, who knows?

I'd gone to a meeting of a group of parents with children with autistic spectrum disorders and this psychologist/school girl, to discuss the training these children need to get them ready for the real world. It was an informal affair and we sat around a large table. I carefully manoeuvred myself to sit next to her, so I could monopolise her attention. In the end, she had little to say, so my careful effort was wasted but it is always nice to confirm that I can subtly manipulate things to my son's advantage when I need to. It's a skill that only the most hardened and determined carer achieves; I like to think of myself as a black dan in proactive caring. Social workers probably do as well and leave me well alone, knowing that whatever support they can come up with will always be inferior to mine.

But back to the meeting. There was a new couple at the meeting, with that haunted look about them that comes from a life of coping with a difficult child and helpless caring professionals. Both of them were there and both of them joined in the discussion, which to my trained eye means that the father is not significantly disabled by the curse of Asperger's Syndrome himself or that the child is not his biologically. Years ago, I came to realise that people with Asperger's tend to produce children on the autistic spectrum. There are a few notable cases of mothers with a level of Attention Deficit Disorder, with or without the hyperactivity. They tend to have children with a degree of attention deficit in their disability. I include myself in this. It is incredibly mild and barely noticeable but it is there. It explains my early problems with paying attention to detail and finishing work but years ago I must have unconsciously realised the problem and set about correcting it. Generally, it is the father who shows the greatest degree of affliction with Asperger's Syndrome. It can be subtle, so for example I once attended a meeting for parents of children at Pip's school. One father sat at the back, facing away from the speakers and ate danish pastries throughout the meeting, actively ignoring the activity at the front of the room. That response would have been subtle but he then ruined it by asking a barrage of questions at the very end, which showed he hadn't listened to the talk. It can be more obvious, for example, I have seen fathers of children monopolising their wife's attention at significant meetings, demanding answers to trivial and unrelated questions they fired at their spouse, like a two year old child anxious for reassurance from its mother. In all the years that I have attended meetings and met parents of children with autistic spectrum disorders, I would say that I have met fathers who exhibit autistic tendencies in all but four cases. Two of them were unrelated to the child they called son. The experts put that figure at fifty per cent. I feel quite smug that I know more than the experts.

During last week's meeting, the father was incredibly normal and well tuned in to his son's needs. I assumed the boy had been adopted, but it soon transpired he was the father's step-son. It was the age old problem of a child with Asperger's, who grows up 'different' to everyone else, the parents make incredible accommodations for his behaviour (in this case he moved out to live with elderly and childless relatives very early on, to ensure that he was given plenty of individual time). Unfortunately, in my limited experience, these children carry on until one day when a relatively minor incident occurs and they suddenly explode. The parents are left shell-shocked, with the dawning realisation than there is something incredibly wrong. In this case, this child's explosion, in his mid twenties, led to a prison sentence.

John Bercow wrote a report on the state of support for communication disorders in Britain a number of years ago. I'm sure he wrote that the prisons are full of a huge number of people with these disorders, so I knew people with Asperger's Syndrome are far more likely to go to prison but I had never come across such a case before. Of course, the mother was ashamed of her son's record but she was so full of confusion and worries that she had to empty out all the skeletons she had accrued in her cupboards. Our psychologist sat quietly at my side. I tried to reassure this mild mannered couple that anger and temper tantrums go with the condition, that John Bercow's report had identified the likelihood of a criminal record and that most of the group, if they were being honest with themselves, could be telling the exact same story.

Our psychologist, with her mild, uncertain manner, girly looks and behaviour and ignorance of some of the characteristics of Asperger's, failed to impress the assembled group. I felt sorry for her, untouched by the pain of caring for an autistic child, embarrassed by our confessions, unsure of her knowledge and a stranger in a group of people united by a common experience. I turned to her and asked her about her qualifications, expecting her to reel off an impressive list of degrees, experiences and in-depth knowledge. She told me she had a degree in psychology and had helped out in a nursery for children with autistic spectrum disorders. I was surprised by her honesty but needed some reassurance so I probed deeper. Was her manager more experienced? Did she have support from experts? What were her views on some of the books written by experts? She simpered through the questions, replying with half-answers. I moved to the problems people with Asperger's Syndrome face, their difficulty in recognising their limitations, their inability to formulate solutions and their slowness in adapting their behaviour to camouflage these problems. I cited the example that Pip has had the same class target for the last four years; not to call out in class, and how, after four years of rewards and consequences, support and feedback, he still insists upon disrupting classes with inane and random announcements. How could any organisation invest the time and the money working on life skills which could take years to develop? She told me she sets a target and gets her client to commit to it and provide their own feedback. Simple really, and well within the capability of all the women present. I asked her how long she had been working with the clients, she replied a few months and no, she hadn't successfully completed a project yet. I could see my fellow group members rolling their eyes significantly, but she was looking so earnestly and anxiously into my eyes that she missed their response.

I turned to the new couple; 'are you interested in getting support from this organisation?' 'We're desperate, we need help from everyone who can provide it.' I brokered a firm commitment on behalf of our under-age psychologist, to phone the couple up within the fortnight, to offer help to their son or explain why she couldn't. I looked her in the eyes and explained how much they needed that phone call, dramatically recalling what it felt like to be let down by support services. She promised faithfully.

At the end of the session, she left to attend another meeting, apologising for going. I sat back and watched my fellow carers. The tension and shyness drained out of them and they became an angry mass of women. The room buzzed with questions, directed at anyone who would listen; 'who does she think she is?' ,'what experience was that?', 'what does she think she is going to achieve?'. But beyond all of this anger, I felt quite optimistic. In the past, I have dealt with caring professionals who have become jaundiced by their lack of understanding of this unique condition and their inability to spend the time and money. Here was a new kid, with all the optimism of ignorance. She had been so easy to control and so open and honest in her responses. Pip is too young to access her support, but when he becomes eighteen, I will contact her, give her clear instructions of what he needs and watch her closely, to ensure that she provides a service which is effective and appropriate. That girl shows promise.

As the parents slowly filed out of the meeting, I walked over to the kettle and made myself a cup of tea, waiting for the arrival of Gary. Sure enough, as the group dwindled, he walked in and sat down, as anxious to talk to me as I was to talk to him. Gary is my lifeline, a young man with all the obvious characteristics of Asperger's Syndrome; a technical degree, anxiety, a lack of social graces and an indifference to his looks which still staggers me. But underneath it all, Gary is a gem. He doesn't work, so has plenty of time to work through his limitations, reading up on his condition, contemplating his behaviour and identifying his oddities. He prefers plain talking, so I ask him painful, blunt questions totally unadorned by the niceties I would have to think up for normal people, occasionally explaining that I need to know how he thinks for the sake of Pip. He answers with the honesty and cruelty that Asperger's produces. I'm glad he doesn't mean anything to me emotionally but he is a brilliant friend. As we sat back in our chairs and dismissed the usual greetings as mindlessly as we could, I got to business. 'Did you see the psychologist, the young girl with the notepad?' 'Oh, yes, I was watching her.' 'What did you think of her?' 'She doesn't know anything, she is too dressed up and she can't help me.' That was it, my flowery and partially-formed opinions were condensed into a quick sentence. Pip wouldn't take well such a feminine and sweet-natured psychologist. I would have to beef her up a bit before she could be useful.

Gary had provided me with what I wanted, I wriggled myself comfortable and prepared to fulfill my part of the bargain 'Tell me your new computer's specification' I heard myself say, as I drifted into a dream world, ready to spend the rest of the afternoon listening to a shower of bits and bytes, RAMs and ROMs.