Victoria’s Corner

Danni and I are going to collect the latest addition to our household on Sunday evening. The lady from Cats’ Protection reports that his photograph does not do him justice because he was hiding under a chair at the time and refusing to come out.

The fosterer has named him Fagin. (No wonder he didn’t want to come out from under the chair.) We are going to have to choose a new name for him. To stay on the theme chosen by the fosterer, we could call him Dickens. Or Pickwick. Or Nickleby. Danni insists that we should bring the creature home first and see what his personality is like before getting all excited (she can be very crushing at times) but I still can’t stop making lists of suitable names.

If this is what cats bring out in me, goodness knows what I’d be like with babies.

As my last blog entry makes clear, sometimes I offend people without meaning to. (Those of you who know me personally will no doubt vigorously attest to the truth of this.)

When people don’t know me so well, it is much harder for them to grasp that I am not (usually) being rude by choice when I do something that upsets them - especially as my mistakes appear so calculated, so obviously unacceptable, that a person with the full complement of social skills would naturally struggle to understand how anybody could commit such crimes by accident.

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I am going to get a T-shirt with this slogan printed on it, in the style of those ‘Born in the USA’ shirts that you can buy.

For those of you who don’t know, KSA stands for the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. This is the country where I grew up and the place that I call home. It is also the source of all my personal weaknesses and defects, apparently.

Earlier this year a friend came to look round Cambridge with a view to applying there. Her mum accompanied her, and we spent several hours together that evening. One wistful remark of mine (”I miss Saudi”), which I thought had been absorbed into the flow of the conversation, was plucked out as an explanation for all the things that I have done to irritate or upset my friend’s mother over the years. “Vicky is a nice person, but she’s very naive and she’s been brainwashed. That place is evil…”

When my friend reported her mother’s remarks to me, I was hurt and perplexed. I was even more puzzled by the way in which my friend’s mother applied her newfound knowledge about my background. When I absent-mindedly forgot to show my ticket as we walked through a barrier at King’s Cross Station, for example, she decided that my upbringing in Saudi was the cause of this piece of dishonesty. Not my short-term memory deficits. Not a passing daydream. My upbringing in Saudi.

She uses the same reasoning to dismiss some of my political and religious views, as she finds them unpalatable. It can’t be that I hold a different opinion because I happen to think differently, perceive things differently. It must be because I was brought up in Saudi Arabia, and that means that my opinions are Bad. As a concession towards me, she owns that I can’t help holding them and I certainly didn’t think them up for myself. They’re only in my head because Saudi Arabia put them there.

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Danni has spent most of this past week at a summer school for young adults with autism. Today was devoted to cookery, so I decided to enrol in the class myself. The menu for the day was spaghetti bolognaise, garlic bread, and fruit salad - all to be made from scratch. I was very excited at the prospect, and so were my fellow students. One boy, who reminded me very much of my nephew Ben, kept announcing, “I’m doing some cooking,” at frequent intervals, in a very dignified tone. He had the stove opposite mine, and we kept up a running conversation.

“I’m doing some cooking.”

“I am crushing my garlic.”

“I’m doing some cooking!” - more emphatically this time.

“I am adding this rather noxious-smelling beef stock powder to my pan.”

My neighbour became so overcome by our exchange that he fell silent for a while, apart from occasional bursts of chuckling as he is stirred his mincemeat in a very business-like fashion.

“Now, how are you doing here?” the instructor asked me, poking his head over my shoulder. “Hmm - you’ve nearly finished. As you’re so expert, perhaps you could make another pan for the staff.”

Thrilled, I turned back to the instructions (which had been written out in a simplified format and stuck to the wall of my workstation) and began to prepare a pot of Quorn bolognaise for one of the support workers, who is a vegetarian. Unfortunately I am not able to be flexible or imaginative when cooking, which meant that I carried out every last instruction religiously. Including the one that called for a liberal sprinkling of beef bouillion powder.

“Is any of this vegetarian?” the support worker called out.

“Yes, yours is over here,” and the instructor nodded towards me. “I haven’t put any beef stock in it.”

Stifling an exclamation, I turned to face the sink and stared stolidly out of the window. If I said something, the support worker might feel obliged not to eat the meal for ethical reasons, whereas if she didn’t know…

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I am very tired and will be flopping into bed soon. This level of weariness is not surprising, given the things that came through the letterbox today. The Job Centre has expended at least half a tree on the next lot of paperwork that I need to read through, sign, fold into paper cranes, and send off. I despair of ever being able to follow all their instructions. I do not know what is required of me at the moment.

Danni has her first day of summer school tomorrow, so I will be busying myself with the housework and perhaps going out for a stroll in the countryside.

I have more to say, but I am too sleepy to - zzzzzz.

“Do you know any famous autistic people who are married, apart from Donna Williams?”

“Liane Holliday-Willey,” I replied. “But why?”

My questioner explained that she was in a discussion with a (non-autistic) friend who believes that people with autism should not get married. “He says that people who like to be alone should live alone.”

This is one of the most upsetting fantasies about autism that I have ever encountered (and I’ve encountered several). It is upsetting because the theory behind the fantasy is that autistic people do not need love and are incapable of giving it - at least the kind of love that is present in a marriage. The deconstruction of this myth and others like it is the aim of one wonderful and enlightening book, Autism and the Myth of the Person Alone, which ’seriously engages the perspectives of people with autism, including those who have been considered as the most severely disabled within the autism spectrum…the rich and insightful perspectives of people who have heretofore been thought of as uninterested in the world’.

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Each day here at Mad Headquarters brings a new opportunity to learn a valuable life lesson. Today, for example, Danni disovered that she may want to log off her computer before she goes for a bath. Otherwise high-spirited and mischievous types may wreak havoc on Dyspraxic Teens in her name before she comes back…

Yesterday the two of us went to the Job Centre so that I could make an appointment with the Disability Employment Advisor and arrange to receive some Income Support until I have a job. The reams of paperwork and the rapid-fire questioning over the telephone are not very dyspraxic-friendly. In the end I stopped being able to process the questions and just replied ‘No’ to each one, even though I knew that in some cases ‘No’ was the incorrect answer. I just couldn’t get the right word through my brain and out of my mouth. I was jolted back to consciousness when the lady on the other end of the line enquired, “Are you a miss, a missis, or a moose?” I dearly wanted to say ‘moose’, but I resisted the temptation.

The result is that I should receive about £70 a week through Income Support and Carer’s Allowance, until I get a job or return to university. I hope to be back in the classroom by January. Perhaps surprisingly, I have chosen to study psychology.

Danni and I are signing up for a ballet class. Neither of us is exactly light on our feet and we are not renowned for our swanlike grace and poise, but we have decided not to let such things stand in our way. We are also going to attend a social group for people with Asperger’s Syndrome.

I went to the Young People’s Prayer Group at the cathedral last night. It was not my cup of tea at all. The participants had carried chairs into the sanctuary (the space behind the altar) and set up a projector screen for worship songs there. They were right in front of where the tabernacle would have been if it hadn’t been shunted into a side-chapel. Before the service began there was a lot of chatting and chuckling. I would have been too shy to join in even if the gathering hadn’t been on the other side of the altar rails, where I refused to set foot. I appreciate the physical aids to worship within Catholicism, such as the demarcation of a sacred space where you do not tread. It cultivates humility. All this let’s-be-up-close-and-personal business seems to ignore that aspect of our prayer.

I remained in my pew and prayed silently throughout.

Now I must be off to post my application forms and buy a new bin. Ours is not big enough. (This independence lark is still novel enough for me to rejoice at the prospect of going to general store and making my selection. I may also get a litter tray while I’m at it.)

In the meantime, this is Third Day. Enjoy.

This is my second full day in Newcastle. (We are actually in a village in the surrounding countryside, but as it only has about six inhabitants - discounting the sheep - I don’t want to give its name. You might stalk me.)

Danni has been exerting herself with the housework. Last night she tidied the living room (now we have some floor to walk on) and this morning she did the laundry and attended to the washing-up. My contribution has been to…err…buy a loaf of bread and some jam from the local shop. This afternoon I am going to make a gargantuan effort and scrub out the bath and shower with disinfectant. (If I had some nitroclycerine on hand I would use that - my mum’s genes came out in me in rather a dramatic way when I got into the bath this morning and observed all the grime left by the bumbling builders, who also seem to have put the shower out of commission while they were busy doing ‘plumbing’. House demolition, I would call it.)

More importantly, I have contacted the local branch of Cats’ Protection. We have almost decided which cat we are going to adopt. He is two years old and rather distinguished-looking. (Dad suggested that we name him Jeeves when he saw the photograph.) However, I also have a compassionate soft spot for an elderly cat named Fagin, who looks as though no one wants to adopt him. He’s too old and has health complications. I couldn’t bear to think of him all alone in his cat-pen, but Danni put her foot down with a firm hand when I suggested wistfully that we provide a comfortable place for him to spend his feline retirement. “You have to consider how much his medication will cost. There is a monetary aspect to this.”

“True,” I said regretfully, mentally dropping my proposal to adopt both the cats. Danni may have an anxiety disorder that causes her to panic over very small things, but the rest of the time she is really alarmingly sensible. One day I will come downstairs to discover her wearing a twinset and pearls. And carrying a Filofax.

Good Lord, no. Please no.

This cartoon reminds me a lot of my cat Hamish. He loved to be vacuumed - he used to follow the Hoover around and lie in front of it.

There is no god, other than you, who cares for every thing, to whom you might have to prove that you never judged unjustly. Your justice has its source in strength, your sovereignty over all makes you lenient to all. You show your strength when your sovereign power is questioned and you expose the insolence of those who know it; but, disposing of such strength, you are mild in judgement, you govern us with great lenience, for you have only to will, and your power is there. By acting thus you have taught a lesson to your people how the virtuous man must be kindly to his fellow men, and you have given your sons the good hope that after sin you will grant repentance. (Wisdom 12:13-19.)

Psalm 85

The Spirit comes to help us in our weakness. For when we cannot choose words in order to pray properly, the Spirit himself expresses our plea in a way that could never be put into words, and God who knows everything in our hearts knows perfectly well what he means, and that the pleas of the saints expressed by the Spirit are according to the mind of God. (Romans 8:26-27.)

Jesus put another parable before them, ‘The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a man who sowed good seed in his field. While everybody was asleep his enemy came, sowed darnel all among the wheat, and made off. When the new wheat sprouted and ripened, the darnel appeared as well. The owner’s servants went to him and said, “Sir, was it not good seed that you sowed in your field? If so, where does the darnel come from?” “Some enemy has done this” he answered. And the servants said, “Do you want us to go and weed it out?” But he said, “No, because when you weed out the darnel you might pull up the wheat with it. Let them both grow till the harvest; and at harvest time I shall say to the reapers: First collect the darnel and tie it in bundles to be burnt, then gather the wheat into my barn.”

He put another parable before them, ‘The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed which a man took and sowed in his field. It is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the biggest shrub of all and becomes a tree so that the birds of the air come and shelter in its branches.’

He told them another parable, ‘The kingdom of heaven is like the yeast a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour till it was leavened all through.’

In all this Jesus spoke to the crowds in parables; indeed, he would never speak to them except in parables. This was to fulfil the prophecy: I will speak to you in parables and expound things hidden since the foundation of the world.

Then, leaving the crowds, he went to the house; and his disciples came to him and said, ‘Explain the parable about the darnel in the field to us.’ He said in reply, ‘The sower of the good seed is the Son of Man. The field is the world; the good seed is the subjects of the kingdom; the darnel, the subjects of the evil one; the enemy who sowed them, the devil; the harvest is the end of the world; the reapers are the angels. Well then, just as the darnel is gathered up and burnt in the fire, so it will be at the end of time. The Son of Man will send his angels and they will gather out of his kingdom all things that provoke offences and all who do evil, and throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and grinding of teeth. Then the virtuous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Listen, anyone who has ears!’ (Matthew 13:24-43.)

I moved in with Danni today. As a result I am very tired and will soon be crawling off to bed in my little garret.

Yes, I do have a garret. A real one. (At last I can consider myself a writer of distinction - there is even a skylight set at an angle in the roof, from which I can gaze wistfully over the muddle of picturesque rooftops, the distant trees and fells, and - closer to home - the chimney of the pizza shop.) Adding to its simple charm are the clothes rail (cheaper than a wardrobe) and the futon (I doubted my ability to assemble an Ikea bed). The only real furniture is a small two-drawer cabinet, a bookcase, and a low folding-table that Danni gave me for my shrine.

The shrine set in a niche underneath the skylight, complete with my beautiful crucifix, Andrei Rublev’s ikon of the Holy Trinity, an image of Christ of the Desert, a little photograph of St Therese of Lisieux (captioned “My way is total confidence and love”), a statue of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, the miniature Rosa Mystica statue that belonged to Grandma, my Bible, my prayer books, and one other beloved ikon. I did have a picture of the Pope, but the walls of the shrine looked a bit crowded with him in there, so I relegated him to the top of the cabinet. He is sitting next to the statue of the Hindu god Ganesh that my students gave me when I left Nepal. (I hope that the Holy Father won’t mind this particular flat-share too much.)

Mum and Dad bought me the furniture essentials and helped me to settle in. They’re probably even more exhausted than I am right now. I hope that Dad did not injure his back when he lugged all my books up those stairs. I got a bit worried about the way he was limping and breathing at one point.

The flat is built on two levels and is very spacious. Our bedrooms are on the top floor, and downstairs we have a kitchen, living room, and bathroom (which is huge). The space behind the stairs will make a very convenient guest bedroom and study, as it is so roomy. Now the challenge will be to keep the flat in fairly good shape, and as it is being inhabited by two women with autism, dyspraxia, and assorted mental health difficulties I do not know how successful we will be at the householdy-type things. I will have to remember St Therese’s words whenever I begin a task -”My way is total confidence…” - but I am not so sure that I will be in total harmony with that sentiment when I am trying to cook.

Bedtime. Night God bless.