Hairy Farmer

As part of the drawn-out and tedious process of disengaging from our current broadband provider, I attempted to register for @gmail and @hotmail accounts earlier today. I attempted to register, natch, hairyfarmer@, because that is ME, dude! Or, rather, US –  if John is standing within earshot of me. He nicknamed himself so first, but I rather feel I’ve made it my own since then.

Imagine my sensations, therefore, when I discovered that some officious busybody had – prepare yourself for something very dreadful – beaten me to it. Registered both already. Done deal. I was offered hairyfarmer0 @hotmail.

The indignity of it. Me! THE hairy farmer, damnit! HOW VERY DARE THEY?!

And then it struck me whom it might possibly be.

A little while ago I became aware (belatedly, as I’ve not seen stats for months: my version of IE refuses to display WordPress stats, and crashes if urged) that there was another.

And how.

I remember vividly that the last time I featured a link that was ohh-so-fundamentally not safe for work, Betty unwittingly opened it on the train, so let me preface the following with a strident warning: this one is slightly more risque than a young lady with a labial piercing.

If frisky, hairy, boisterous gay porn is yo thang, or you simply fancy a trip somewhere different in your head, then google ‘hairy farmer’, ignore the ones that are obviously me, and select the hairy farmer tumblr account that seems like it might be me – until you notice the beards (love ’em!) the leather mankini-things (love ’em!) and the genitalia (Hmmm. Is he…? No. Yes. Yes, he is.).  By which time you may plausibly have forgotten all about me, especially if you find the photo with the All. The. Cows.

Happy-looking cows, to be fair.

And there are plenty of photos of people just holding hands, which is adorable. Adorable Cheerful Hairy People! My favourite! And everything altogether seems really quite welcoming, albeit in a highly specialised fashion.

So, if I know about them: Magnus and pals must know about me. Perhaps it might be best if they continue to steer clear of my particular corner of the internet, and I shall promise faithfully to do my best to steer clear of theirs, because I feel I can contribute very little of specific interest to them, unless I send them a photo of John in the shower. Or… we could have a bloggy cultural exchange? Like town-twinning, but with… actually, I have no idea with what – yet – but it would be bloody interesting, I promise.

Carnivorous Rabbit

I keep promising to do better and Achieve Things here, don’t I?

Ah, well. I make the same promises at Weightwatchers every week, and I haven’t shifted a single pound since October. Or, leastways, I have – all the 10 pounds I gained in the festive interim. Christmas represents, in the weightloss battle, a bloody big snake. I’ve clawed my way back up the ladder to exactly what I weighed last time I mentioned it. I have re-joined the gym in a mutinous fury, ostensibly with my own metabolism, but knowing full well that the problem is my congenital sweet tooth coupled to my engrained belief that a meal should overflow the plate all around the rim.

I have some vague intention this morning of delivering a Hairy update, so I could then – theoretically – resume blogging without having to retrack and explain things. 

 So. I have seen a near-perfect job advertised, and am oscillating madly between brooding gloomily what my chances of getting it are, and telling myself that if this one doesn’t pan out there Will Be Others. The pay is atrocious, naturally, but I think John would just be delighted to see me doing something. I was chuntering on about the parlous state of my personal employment nation the other morning, and he said – fairly kindly – ‘Yes, but you’re a wordy eccentric who can’t get up in the mornings.’

Sadly, he is bang on the money. Or, more precisely, on the reason why I will never have any.

Neither will he, much, if this agricultural year continues on its trajectory towards Noah’s flood. We have planted almost nothing, which is virtually unheard of in living memory. Whatever did get drilled, locally, rotted forlornly in the ground. So, already in the red for seed and tractor diesel (both for sowing it and ploughing the ground up again after it failed) Midlands farmers are looking likely to have a quiet year. Potentially this means John will have an unprecedented amount of free time this spring/summer, but it will doubtless be too soggy to take the caravan anywhere. I feel meteorologically Picked On.  

Harry continues to be Ace, with a huge side order of Impossible. I spent a humiliating 40 minutes sobbing in front of the Headteacher and SENCo a fortnight ago, trying desperately – and futilely – to mentally regroup after they warned me that Harry’s funding (which buys him 10 hours a week of one-to-one teaching assistant time) will dry up like spit on a stove at the end of March. The school have promised me – possibly to save their carpets from saltwater damage – that they will continue the input from their own budgets until the end of the summer term, but the thought of the next academic year makes me panicky. I am PTA chair (and, of late, an unpaid TA when teachers are under the cosh): I regularly hear things about the school budgets that depress me.

My belief that Harry’s overall trajectory will be a fiery trail of glory remains undimmed, but he does, currently, blatantly present several overlapping Specific Learning Difficulties to us. The Educational Psychologist that could unpick the exact nature of these issues is charged by our County to the School at £250 an hour. The school feel that £250 is better spent on TA time than psychology, and I broadly agree with them: whatever Harry’s diagnosis and recommendations, all the school are likely to be able to practically implement is similar to what he already has: targetted individual learning time to maximise his concentration and progress.

Of course, they don’t altogether see what we see. School are confident that, although failing a little (Harry is ‘below expectations’ in nearly every area) he will continue to make good progress. They highlight his high scores for IQ and reassure me.  I know they think there are other children in his class who need individual help just as much as Harry does, or possibly even more – and don’t get it, because they aren’t statemented, and Harry currently is. (Only for speech, alas, which is why he is losing it in March. We can’t shut the bugger up.) They expect he will overcome his difficulties with learning. I share their long-term confidence, but he is becoming rapidly disaffected with learning now, this minute, even with help, because learning with a SpLD means working twice, three, four times as bloody hard for a poorer result – and I’m grimly aware that next year, with no external funding, the battle will be between me and the school. He is my super-special-precious-snowflake, and I am not as sanguine as they are. Hence, I feel that we are likely to obtain a privately funded EdPsych report before next year, to tell me exactly what I need to pester the school to provide for him – in the sinking knowledge that they have to share scant resources among many pupils with need, and I will be the squeaky wheel expecting grease. Which feels wrong, but else can I do?

There isn’t enough fucking money, is the long and the short of it. Every parent of a child with special needs I speak to tells me the same thing. All across the county, all across the country. I know three families with secondary-school-age children with specific learning difficulties who have sent their children to private school, at enormous cost, because it was abundantly clear that state-funded education (even in an outstanding-rated school like ours) did not have the resources to meet their children’s need.

Harry is receiving help from other sources, although we are still awaiting for the joint OT/Physio assessment I told you about last June to materialise. Oh, and I am told by that department that there is no-one that can assess his sensory integration issues, either, because there’s no-one trained to do it locally. *pause to smash crockery* It’s absurdly underfunded and, ultimately, failing children. There are kids out there with far worse issues than Harry, from far less privileged backgrounds, from parents with fewer mental resources, and God help ’em.

Harry’s wetting has nearly stopped. (I am touching all the wood I can politely lay hold of.) We don’t get much warning yet, and there are plenty of skedaddles to the toilet with his fingers firmly stemming the flow, but the pants are seldom sopping wet anymore. He has been dry before and I have celebrated too soon; on this occasion, however, I have successfully moved the underpants drawer from the hall (easy daytime access) upstairs into his bedroom, and he is pleased with his progress.

If I had to put a pin in a venn diagram of SpLDs,

my best guess currently is dyspraxia with some autistic behaviours and a soupçon of ADHD. Regarding autism, it came as a largeish shock to me late last year that Harry’s peculiar array of peculiar peculiarities probably had a name, because I was fairly clueless about the whole business and had thought that his affectionate personality squarely ruled him out for it. Not so, Watson! Of course, rapidly following on from that was the rosy dawn of enlightenment concerning my own peculiar array of peculiar peculiarities. Harry, poor lad, is me – turned up to 11. Anyhoo, we took him for an initial Clinical Psychology assessment last week, and it went well, because they instantly GOT the quirks, without having to explain them laboriously. And the myriad sensory horrors. And the constant, senseless, angry defiance and the endless, infuriating, oppositional behaviour. 

I’m not sure what the plan is, if any, regarding the misplaced sense of entitlement and injustice, coupled to the level of crossness he feels on a frequent basis (which appears like a sabre-toothed carnivorous rabbit out of a blue-skied hat). They seem to feel that they can help him with his extreme sensitivity to mild, mild (mild!) peril and suspense. He can’t even watch cBeebies anymore (the preschooler channel) without running from the room several times an hour, quivering with fright. Tackling that would be nice, because his anxiety really limits where we can take him, and what activities we can expose him to. No cinema. No theatre workshops. No story-telling. Nowhere loud. No, for the love of almighty Christ, fireworks. Unsurprisingly, the kid likes documentaries.

I do wonder if I’m over-analytical (ref: Ann’s peculiarities, above) and thinking he’s worse than he is. John tends to think that all will be well; I tend to think that it’s more serious than he thinks, and we’re probably both right. John acknowledges all Harry’s issues, but considers that he’ll outgrow them. Maturity is certainly something he badly lacks, and needs in order to move forward with many of his issues. I also think that some psychological stitches now will save 9 years of struggle later. At the end of the day he can let his education slide, if that makes him truly happy. I fundamentally want to raise a child at peace with himself.

Whatever: we are inexpressibly lucky, because when he isn’t being thoroughly awkward, he is being a complete delight. We took him along to my cousin’s wedding a couple of weeks ago, and immediately on arrival at the reception, he headed out onto the dancefloor with great intrepidity – and stayed there, in solitary splendour to begin with.

His dyspraxia/hypermobility bit him in the bum now and again, but any evening in which you dance Gangnam Bhangra Style with your Mum & Dad whilst stood smugly atop a speaker has to be a winner.

I think he’ll do, really.

Mine was very nice indeed, ta.

I do hope yours was, too.

xmas 9d xmas 9c xmas 9b xmas 9 xmas 8 xmas 7 xmas 6 xmas 5 xmas 4 xmas 3

The Rumour Is

The Rumour Is

…that I have to go home tomorrow, to where the rivers are all in flood, roads are blocked, and villages cut off.

Dislike.

It’s all fairly dreadful

It's all fairly dreadful

but I’m coping bravely.

Wycliffe goes on holiday

Wycliffe goes on holiday

Harry’s beloved bear is accompanying us. This has not reduced my stress load.

Irascible? Moi?

Of course, during the previously-discussed hormonal fluctuations, what one gains in terms of hunger (I am no longer trying to Eat All Of The Things), one loses to the Weepies and naked aggression.

Kill All Of The Things.

(Except for Jose Mujica, because he sounds quite cool.)

And then cry about it, while attempting to clean the sheets, and the mattress, because your body is a total vindictive bastard.

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