“All the members of the Inclusion Panel are education professionals with a wide range of expertise and experience,” smarmed the lady over the telephone.

“So are we,” replied Darling Wifey.

This reminded me of my conversation a few months ago, with someone else in the same office. He had made the mistake of printing his qualifications (an MA in civil law) on his letterhead, and then writing in the letter that he knew better than me what was the best educational policy for children with autism. I did enjoy correcting him…

The current glossy pamphlet that we are working through is optimistically entitled, “Your Child’s Statutory Assessment” - and we were thinking of submitting a few corrections.

One section states, “It takes up to 26 weeks to produce a statement.” This is plainly wrong, as the chart omits the five months of preparation for the Tribunal and three weeks of negotiation through expensive mediators.

All families should do things together. It?s important that you retain your identity as a family, and enjoy activities that bring you closer together.

As a family, we go to the psychiatrist.

This is my fault. When Little Nutter was diagnosed with autism I was not happy with the statement made by his paediatrician. She based her entire Dx on a rather questionable observation: she said that she saw him ?hand flapping.?

I now have no doubt whatsoever that Little Nutter has autism. I have read almost one hundred works on the identification and diagnosis of autism and autism spectrum disorders - and Little Nutter is a pretty severe, if affectionate, example. However, in all of his three and a half years in this world, no-one else has ever seen him ?hand flapping.?

So I asked for a second opinion.

Memo to self: keep your gob shut.

Anyway, we visited this psycho and his attractive assistant (?BM BS, PhD, MRCS, MRCP, don?t patronise me you sexist pig!?) and they discussed family life with autism whilst taking notes and making the pre-requisite inquisitive observations. (?I?m taking notes because I?m a psychiatrist, not because I?m a secretary!?)

Little Madam was gorgeous. She sat quietly in a corner with a copy of ?Horrible Henry Catches Nits? and giggled.

Tiny Flirt, well, he flirted. He gets terribly jealous, does that lad. Being a son of mine, it took him about fifteen seconds to clock that the registrar community psychiatrist was a bit of a babe, and to embark on the compulsory flirting. He went for the sympathy tactic, and impaled himself on her stiletto heels before wailing loudly. It worked.

Good lad.

And Little Nutter upended the toybox, found a nice model train, and then spent the rest of the hour trying to leave.

Anyway, we have another appointment?

Shopping is hell.

When Darling Wifey takes me clothes shopping, The Plan comes into effect. First, I feign sleepiness. Then I dive into McDonald’s and buy their largest size coffee to carry round with me. At every ladies’ clothes shop, security refuses to let me in because I have a drink.

“I’m sorry. Just leave me here with the children - we’ll be okay. We’ll wait.”

But furniture stores have planned ahead, and they ambush me.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, sir?”

I hate them.

Then we have to look at 350 types of suite for the new house. That’s 350 in each shop. Some we need to sit on, because we need to know if they are comfy, whilst others don’t need sitting on because they look right, and sitting on them will ruin the effect. (???????) Then we have to look at swatches and imagine what this suite will look like in the style of that suite, but with this material (whilst Darling Wifey holds up a six-inch square of grubby material.)

And then, when we get home, we have to discuss them all in analytical detail.

It’s Victory in Durham day! Isn’t VD wonderful?

The education people have finally agreed to go ahead with Little Nutter’s assessment for special assistance at school.

Not only that, they have agreed to do so on the basis of a new report that specifies his needs exactly as we described them ten months ago!

Hah. We were right all along.

Request permission to be smug.

I don’t think I have actually been alone for three years. You certainly can’t count the toilets as a private place in this house - small children invade this very personal space and demand Quality Time whilst Daddy can’t run away.

(This blog is becoming worryingly scatological. I think I’d better change the subject.)

A Strange Sequence of Events conspired to give me about five hours alone at home today. 84 miles from work, nothing to do but clean things, and no-one to disturb me.

It was a strangely surreal experience.

The strangest thing is just how annoyed I am about it. There are so many things that I could have done today, rather than having to cram them into the precious few hours Darling Wifey and I get together.

I feel cheated.

I am so excited!

The solicitor has been instructed, the bank has approved the mortgage and is dealing with paperwork in a ridiculously expensive way, and there is a sold sign outside a house in York. But more importantly, I’M GETTING A SHED!

Who cares about the house. The garden is already planted! I don’t have to dig - just pull a few weeds out every now and then. There is already a patio. I hate building patios. I built one for Darling Wifey, but then she decided that she wanted the conservatory there, so I had to build her another one.

But best of all there is a shed, in a quiet spot, hidden behind some trees where she can’t see in.

It’s nice and secure and dry and well built. (I was tempted to slip the surveyor an extra fifty quid to check and make sure, but we are buying this shed from a decent bloke. I’m sure I can trust him to have looked after my new shed.)

It’s a nice big shed, with room for a table and a comfy chair, and there is already a link to the power there, so I can fit a fridge and perhaps even run an internet link out there. And lock myself in.

And just to make sure Darling Wifey doesn’t come in, I’m going to let spiders live in the roof.

“Yours is the Shed and everything that?s in it,
And?which is more?you?ll be a Man, my son!”
(apologies to Rudyard Kipling.)

I’ve been unable to log into the blogging software for a couple of weeks whilst Darling Wifey made some adjustments to the Internet. I don’t think that this involved her having to jack anything up or crawl underneath with a spanner, but it did keep her very busy for quite a while. As routine services go, this one was slow, she didn’t valet round the computer after she had finished, and the seat still squeaks. However, she assures me that she will get better economy now and doesn’t need to spend quite so long making minor adjustments any more.

All well and good.

My new job is still fun, although I don’t recommend commuting by rail - even on the empty trails of the North East at 7am. It all adds to the high stress levels that we will be enduring for the next few months, as we move house and the education authority tries to keep our complaint against them at the ‘informal’ level (just stop telling us what is best for our son, guys, and read the letters we send you. And by the way, I know your job just as well as you do - remember me? I used to work for you! Stop patronising me and start caring for disabled children, before our case reaches the court and someone ‘accidentally’ calls the newspapers in to report it.)

Finally, the running score so far:
Plus points about promotion: you get to make all the important decisions and can run things your way; people actually listen to what you say and take you seriously; you get to control the budget.
Minus points about promotion: lying awake in bed at night worrying about when happens when they find you out; getting blamed for everything (although so far I can still get away with blaming my predecessor;) meetings; having to interview people and decide who gets jobs; having to be responsible with equipment (i.e. I am not allowed to install Grand Theft Auto on my school laptop.)