Confessions of a Dyspraxic

It is not something that one reveals readily, but the Live Scan guy was looking at me with increasing suspicion and even a modicum of incredulity.  “You don’t know your own zip code and have to text your wife?”

I reluctantly explained that there is this thing called dyspraxia and that one of the consequences is not being able to remember arbitrary numbers like postcodes or phone numbers.  “It isn't senility,” I hastily added.  “I have never been able to recall random numbers.  Carrying a notebook with important stuff in it would be sensible, but dyspraxics are also often pretty disorganized.”

Irritated by the need to explain, I got up far too quickly and failed to notice that the strap of my case had inexplicably become wrapped around the arm of  my chair and the one next to it.  In embarrassed frustration,  I gave an almighty yank: the chairs flew across the somewhat dingy office before noisily clattering to the ground.  “That goes with the territory: dyspraxics are often improbably clumsy and accident prone,” I told the surprised clerk. 

“Is there anything else I should be prepared for?” he asked.  Checking that my belt was tight and my  trousers unlikely to fall down, I suggested that he kept bone china or cut glass decanters out of my way.

Amazing Training

So, it is an extremely hot day and I am damned if I am going to leave Jasper Montgomery, my labrador, to cook in the car so we enter a well-known card shop together. We are greeted by an officious and deeply unpleasant manager who says or rather barks "Service dogs only".
I reply that he is a service dog of sorts and that I can't find a thing without him. Not giving her time to think, I issue the command "Easter cards, boy!" And we head off.
A few minutes later we are back at the counter, Easter cards in hand.  "I didn't know they could do that" says the now awed and ever so slightly discombobulated manager. I reply gravely that it takes a vast amount of training and leave.