Just me, rambling about art, music, life, and occasionally railing at the universe at the absurdity of it all
There's an old tv trope I've seen play out many times over the years.
An anxious woman, a calm and practical salt-of-the-earth type man. She's pacing. He's sitting at a table with a sandwich.
"How can you eat at a time like this?" she asks.
He shrugs and points out that not eating isn't going to fix whatever problem they're facing. Then, for a laugh, he'll ask if they have any mustard.
And the age old battle of the sexes wages on.
Is she…
I was 45 when I learned that dispraxia had a name.
Forty.
Five.
And when I finally found out there was a term to describe my life long struggles with doing basic tasks I wondered why it had taken so long for me to discover it. Was it just not a thing in the 80s? Was it because we were a working class family trapped in the endless maze of HMOs that made seeing a specialist so impossible? Or was it because I was a quiet well behaved girl doing well at school and that…
