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.