One day, you think you are on a path to enlightenment, the next you are scrabbling around in the gutter, feeding off whatever scraps you can find. DS1’s humour never deserts him, though – although sometimes it can be very cutting, especially when he’s factually correct – there’s just no filter sometimes. It’s a good job I’m not paranoid about being fat, ugly and gray. Anyway, we were discussing the wealth of certain footballers and that

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DS1’s battles with everyday life continue. While he is generally in a good place at the moment, his old friend anxiety is always bubbling just under the surface. Often manifesting itself in weird and wonderful ways. His latest sensory-seeking habit on the way to school, for example, is to prick his fingers on a holly bush. I mean, what’s that all about? My cup runneth away We’ve started a new campaign to re-engage him with

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“It’s not my fault we’re in this situation,” indignated DS1. (I know ‘indignated’ isn’t a word, but I think it should be where DS1 is concerned.) Well, whose fault is it then? I didn’t bother asking him, I knew the answer: mine. We’d been having our weekly battle about having a shower. He wouldn’t have one. And here we were, sat on his bed, well past his bedtime, with him unwashed and still in his

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