An Update

Life improves, and - although I am so behind with everything that it's hard to tell - things are clearly much easier than they were six months ago. Husband's leg is very much better. He is walking (albeit still with a limp), and continuing to make gradual progress. The small boy has started at his sisters' school, which has had a very positive effect on all our lives. I have work coming out of my ears (which is a very good thing, and I am not complaining...).

I am heading to Scotland next month for a chunk of respite care in the arms of my beloved mountains - I wasn't planning to take the laptop, but am tempted to try writing something; I have not written a word since January, which saddens me, as my head is bursting with stories of many kinds. I am struggling a bit with my OU course (it always comes bottom of the list), but loving it when I can settle to a few hours of linear recurrence series and the like ;o) On the flip side, the smaller girl has broken her arm (less said about that the better!), and I injured my eye last week - but we are both healing well!

Looking forward to a better year :o)

A Different Kind of Blog

I have been blogging; not here, but where inspiration has taken me for now: Life on the Spectrum. The older posts were taken from Asperger's-related posts I'd written here, but there are a few new ones too. Similarly themed tweets can be found @spectrum_life. It might not be your cup of tea, but you're welcome to take a look.

In other news: husband's leg is improving. After a major setback in January (requiring another ten days in hospital and two further operations), he's now able to (for example) come downstairs without holding on. We're getting there. Life is finding its new normality. One day soon, I will get back to my pile of shorties-to-be-edited. I might even get to read a book! And when I have found that space for reading and writing, I will get back to blogging here :o)

Where was I?

He phoned just before 4pm.
"I've crashed, " he said.

Being married to a man who loves his sports cars (not to mention the motorbikes) means that I've been expecting this call for nearly seventeen years. When it finally came, I was grateful he'd phoned me himself, having hung up on the emergency services lest they get to me first.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"I'm fine," he replied, "but I think I've hurt my foot."
I had a little panic then: this is a man who could slice off his finger and mention only a small cut.
"What sort of hurt-your-foot," I asked.
"It hurts when I move it, and I'm stuck."
Poor lamb. He was stuck in the wreckage for over an hour while they searched for him (he didn't know exactly where he was, and his satnav had been flung out by the force of the impact). Eventually, he was spotted by a kindly farmer, bumbling along on his tractor, who noticed something unusual sticking out of the hedge...

Altogether, he broke three bones; one of them in four places, and the 'hurt foot' required a major reconstruction of his lower left leg. Three months, and three operations later (so far), it remains encased in a steel frame (with all kinds of exciting bits to twiddle). He doesn't get much pain now, he says, and has stopped swearing at his leg, but I can tell you he swears a lot at his crutches instead.

Now he's past the seriously-injured stage (sleeps well, can stay awake all day, isn't popping pills every hour), he's reached the frustration stage. He thinks he's better (which is laughable), and being a man, he's trying to get on with Normal Life. Only he can't. Not even nearly. Hence the swearing. This is at least as hard to live with as having a fragile, bed-bound, smashed-up invalid in the house.

He's getting better. Not day-to-day, or even week-to-week, but if we look back a month, he's much better than he was. Eighteen months, the consultant said, and we've done two of them already.

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These people have made it all possible: the Brighton Orthopaedic Trauma Team, who are talented and lovely with it; Queenie, who thinks she's neglected me, but has just been wonderful; Jane and Angie who have picked up so many pieces I've lost count; my dad, who paid for a cleaning fairy; and my kids, who stepped up to the mark when I needed them to.

Improving Slowly

Oh, it's been a slow week. Not because my little darlings are on half term (I love having them at home), but because I am still recovering from flu. It's been weeks now. And weak is the word. I've been trying to rake up all last autumn's leaves in the garden (not to mention the hedge cuttings) and I've been such a wimpy wet about the whole thing: you know, put-a-few-handfuls-on-the-bonfire-and-go-in-for-a-cup-of-tea, that sort of thing.

Anyway, have been writing - new novel and shorties. Have also been subbing more (this is particularly good), and now have nine shorties awaiting rejection. All this courtesy of the Reconstructed Man who gave me two mornings off this week. Very nice.

So you see, things have been getting better. And then, this morning dear readers, I logged on to DJ's blog to find I have been presented with a very grand award: Overall Winner. I'm not quite sure what this means, as others have been awarded first second third and so on, but I am very pleased with it. Here it is, for me to show off.

Beer is Food

Am sitting here, having given up pretending that I'm going to blitz the study, wondering when (and in what state) Himself will roll in. "I'll be back early," he said, "so we can eat together."

So here am I having done nothing again today (except my Message...note the time: 10:57 - that's 10.57am, and blogging...and looking after the kids).

It's now half past nine. I last ate at about half past twelve, and that was only a cup of watercress soup at a friend's house. Actually, just before that I had been scoffing all her Jaffa Cakes and Chocolate Fingers, but that doesn't sound quite so trendy. Oh, and then there was the Mars bar, and the Twix that I had on the way back from Toys R Us at quarter to six.

But, apart from that, I've eaten nothing all day, and I'm starving. So, because I don't reckon the quality of today's food-intake can get any worse, I've opened a bottle of beer. It's Badger's Golden Glory, a rather fine ale from Hall & Woodehouse who, incidentally, make me spit (the company, not the beer).

They took over my local(ish) brewers, King & Barnes, some years ago, knocked down the brewery and built flats (sorry, apartments) on it. They also dumped the K&B prize-winning "Festive" in favour of their own, comparatively tasteless, "Tanglefoot". However, much to my own annoyance, I do rather like their Golden Glory, with its hint of peach.

Well, that's the first glass gone. Perhaps another?

Tools of the Trade

Jane's been trying to email her biography and photo for the competition in which she was placed. Being a technophobe, this has proved to be rather difficult.

'I sent it,' she said. 'But they say it hasn't arrived.'
We go through the usual...is it still in the drafts folder, the sent folder, the trash? But no. The whole thing, attachments and all, has completely vanished into the ether.

Now, Jane's a genius when it comes to writing plots (making cakes, designing cards, etc.), but does she understand computers? No. Both she and my husband come from school of thought that believes that computers should just do what you want them to do. You shouldn't have to understand how to work them.

Wasn't it the case that when cars were new, you either needed considerable mechanical skills before daring to leave home, or you employed someone to drive it, and mend it, for you? And wasn't it the same with computers? In 1980, you needed a degree in programming to make a computer perform the most simple function. Now, as with cars, we're all just expected to be able to work them, and anyone who can't is seen a being a bit, well, dim. But it's not fair, is it?

Not everyone is cut out for scuba diving, or stamp collecting, and we can choose whether or not to be involved in these activities; but cars, and computers...they're pretty much de rigueur these days.

You only have to look at some folk's driving skills to see that they should still be employing chauffeurs. And the likes of my husband should never be let near a computer. If he had actually thrown a laptop out of the window as many times as he has threatened to, I would no longer have a view - and nor would our neighbours.

But could he survive without it? He would be a junkie in withdrawal. There would be the shakes, the irritability, the unpredictable behaviour...Mmm.

I wonder, how many creative people struggle with the technology that was invented to help them, and how many don't bother with it at all?
And is it the fault of the individual that he or she struggles, or the designer?

When we really do have computers that respond to the command, "Computer, send photo no.34 to the competition organiser," Jane and my husband will be fighting each other for a place at the head of the queue.