"It didn't look crooked to me."

Okay you guys. We have to talk about something serious for a minute. 

The American Psychiatric Association periodically releases the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders – a series of official criteria for the classification of mental illnesses, disabilities and conditions.

In May this year, the fifth edition of this manual – DSM 5 – will be released as the first major revision since 1994. Asperger’s Syndrome will not be in it.

The APA is reworking its definition of autism to exclude or re-diagnose those on the higher-functioning end of the spectrum. It’s estimated that anywhere between the highest functioning 10% and 50% of autism sufferers will lose their diagnosis. One of the impacts of this is that almost all people with Asperger’s will fall off the spectrum completely and therefore, a specific syndrome classification is no longer deemed necessary. For those with Asperger’s who do remain on the spectrum, a re-diagnosis of social communication disorder or general autism will be assigned.

Asperger’s is not a thing anymore.

So what does this mean and why does it matter?

Many professionals and laypersons alike will welcome this change as a step in culling back the over-diagnosis of autism spectrum disorders, especially in children. I don’t have a problem with this per se. In terms of Asperger’s I don’t know how helpful a diagnosis in young children can be – not because it might not be legitimate, but because of the reaction others (other kids, other parents, teachers) tend to have to this labelling.

Having worked in childcare for the last two and a half years, I’ve seen firsthand how badly this situation is often handled in schools. As hard as parents work to create an environment where their child thrives, the fact is many educators are still too ignorant about Asperger’s to really deal with it properly. I’ve seen the fear and panic in the eyes of fellow childcare workers at the prospect of “having Jake,” that is – being assigned to work one-on-one with the kid with Asperger’s. I’ve also seen misguided and unhelpful policies devised, usually involving allowing Asperger’s kids to be completely separate from the rest of the group. The theory behind this is to allow these kids to do whatever they like and not expect them to adhere to rules. This theory in itself is fundamentally flawed. One of the common characteristics of Asperger’s Syndrome is a highly developed sense of justice, and repetitive, routine-based behaviours. Asperger’s kids are not unable to follow rules. Quite the contrary in fact. The problems begin when schools are inconsistent with their rules or routines. Which as any educator, parent or general human being knows, is problematic for all children, Asperger’s or not. Inconsistency breeds bad behaviour and poor social adjustment. Fact.

The reason we separate certain children from the group is not to help them, but to help ourselves and to “protect” other children. Giving responsibility to one teacher or staff member takes the load off others, and prevents parents from storming angrily into staffrooms and demanding that that weird child be kept away from their normal child. This is part of the argument against diagnosing children. It’s used as a tool to protect others from the children’s problem behaviour, rather than to help the child themselves.

But as I said earlier, this is only because schools and the general public are uneducated about Asperger’s and autism. People don’t understand what it is, what it means, and the struggles its sufferers face. An Asperger’s diagnosis for a child at a good, supportive school can be an excellent thing. An Asperger’s diagnosis is almost always an excellent thing for the relationship between a child and their family. It can help reassure parents that their child’s behavioural issues are not “their fault” and help them get access to strategies and support that they need to do the best for their child. So it’s society that needs to shift its perceptions, and removing Asperger’s from the DSM is the exact opposite of achieving this.

Asperger’s is rarely portrayed in popular culture, and when it is, it’s with varying degrees of accuracy or sympathy. One of the first representations of Asperger’s syndrome I can remember seeing on TV is during series 9 of Americas Next Top Model, when Heather Kuzmich, a model from Chicago, was a contestant. It was announced loudly and dramatically by the show’s judges from the outset that Heather had Asperger’s, and when the question was raised “what is that?” a vague definition of “she’s very awkward and has trouble with social situations” was given. 

Heather Kuzmich

The show's producers clearly wanted to turn Heather's Asperger's into a sob story, like the girls with Lupus or partial blindness in previous seasons. Unfortunately autism spectrum disorders don't really lend themselves well to being sob stories. There is a TV-appropriate way to conduct oneself in the presence of an illness on these sorts of shows, but obviously Heather wasn't to know that because she has Asperger's and wouldn't recognise this type of social expectation. The result was that while Heather was one of the best models in the show, most of her screen time was spent seeming unbalanced, weak and crazy. The show wanted to make a "thing" out of Heather's Asperger's at first, but when they realised this wasn't going to work, they switched seamlessly to portraying her as an awkward weirdo. The other contestants were all too happy to propagate this by adopting a "Heather's weird" attitude. None of them knew how to deal with Asperger's. Lupus? Blindness? Easy, be nice to those girls because they have tangible, physical problems. Asperger's? What is that? Just an excuse for being a freak? No deal. 

Fictional portrayals of Asperger's are even more problematic. The most mainstream example I can think of is "that guy" from CBS sitcom The Big Bang Theory. You know, that Sheldon guy. 

Jim Parsons as Sheldon Cooper

I haven't watched this show in its entirety, but I'm pretty sure it's not explicitly stated that Sheldon has Asperger's. He just exhibits all the usual traits and behaviours of someone with Asperger's. He has a freakishly high IQ, is oblivious to social expectations, struggles with empathy and emotions and has rigid habits and routines which, if broken, send him into a panic. But he also wears funny colourful t-shirts and has a silly high-pitched voice, and his Aspergic-tendencies, because acted and not real, come off as funny and even endearing. I mean, it's a sitcom. But this is a bit of an issue because again, it creates the expectation that if you slot Asperger's into a social situation, it will be funny (a la The Big Bang Theory) or sad (a la Americas Next Top Model) neither of which are really accurate. 

Some slightly better portrayals of Asperger's, because yes, they do exist. We've all read this:

Mark Haddon's 2003 novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time tells a first-person narrative from the point of view of Christopher Boone, a 15-year-old with some sort of autism spectrum disorder (although never clearly identified as Asperger's, we tend to assume it is, because Christopher is highly intelligent, but has significant social difficulties). The book was award-winning and ground-breaking for several reasons, but mostly because it somehow managed to tell a story with a socially acceptable level of uplifting narrative, while still managing to portray autism realistically.  

I think the best fictional portrayal of Asperger's I've seen to date is in Ron Howard and Jason Katim's TV drama Parenthood, in which members of the show's central Braverman family deal with the Asperger's diagnosis of their son Max. 

Max Burkholder as Max Braverman

Apparently, the show employs a behavioural psychologist to workshop Max's scenes and ensure they hold true to what a child with Asperger's would really be like in any given situation. It pays off, because Max manages to be a character who is quintessentially Asperger's without being funny, unlikeable or pitiable. The show portrays the family's struggles with the diagnosis accurately too - the initial confusion about what Asperger's is and what this means for their family, the reactions of different family members ranging from grief-stricken to skeptical, and, eventually, the acceptance of the situation and implementation of realistic strategies. Max makes progress, but not too much progress, with a behavioural aide, he moves from a special school to a mainstream school, but not without huge setbacks, he makes friends, but is sufficiently bad at dealing with them, and he pursues the title of class-president with a believable level of obsessive, competitive spirit. He rarely smiles, but he's not without appeal as a person, and we never have those awful moments where he suddenly emerges out of his autistic bubble and hugs his Mum or asks his dad for advice about girls - because that wouldn't happen in real life. The show doesn't compromise. It doesn't try to make an uplifting recovery-story out of Max's Asperger's. It just shows a family doing the best they can to raise their child and experiencing small, realistic victories along the way. 

So in the last decade we have made strides in incorporating Asperger's into popular culture, not only raising awareness, but also creating a group understanding and recognition of legitimacy. So much of this hard-won legitimacy will be lost if people with Asperger's lose their diagnosis. 

But this isn't just about the reactions of society. It's also about individual identity. I've talked at length about the impacts, good and bad, of an Asperger's diagnosis for children. But what about for adults? Adults who are independent, autonomous human beings are able to take control of a situation like an Asperger's diagnosis. It isn't "imposed" on them, like with children. In my experience, most adults issued with an Asperger's diagnosis will identify that exact moment as the one where they suddenly understood themselves. 

For adults and teenagers, an Asperger's diagnosis can be liberating. It can explain things to them that they have struggled with their whole lives. It can give them a common ground with others that they have always lacked. It can help their loved ones to better understand them. When you are diagnosed with Asperger's, a wealth of support, books, websites, academic literature and (increasingly) social understanding suddenly applies to you. Most adults I know who have Asperger's are proud to say they have it, and talk about it more like one would talk about being a "visual learner" or being "mostly left brain" - as a personality trait rather than some kind of disability. Because Asperger's recognises difference without recognising ineptitude. If you take away people's Asperger's, you take away a part of their identity that they have personally claimed and cultivated. 

You also take away many people's right to services which have helped them to turn their Asperger's into a positive in their lives. Many people with Asperger's have a unique way of thinking and are hugely intelligent, but without the right support, both emotional and tangible, many of them would never reach their potential. These services include in-school support staff and behavioural aides for children, and anything from uni lecture note-takers to access to psychological support for adults. 


The DSM is not the law. It doesn't dictate how policy-makers should distribute their funding, and we can only hope that said policy-makers recognise this. There will also be a large number of mental health professionals who disagree with DSM-5 and continue to diagnose Asperger's and work with patients under this diagnosis. 

But there is no guarantee and for those who have fought for years to gain recognition and understanding for people with Asperger's, this marks the worrying beginning of its exit from our collective consciousness. It's up to society to reject this assessment, as I'm sure anyone who, like me, has friends or family who identify as Asperger's, will be quick and vocal in doing. 

Oh hello.

I'm about to start a seven week teaching prac so naturally I had to Google myself to make sure there was nothing sordid about me on the internet that colleagues or students could ring A Current Affair about, but instead of finding that stuff I just found a really lovely recommendation by a fellow Brisbane writer, Sophie Overett, for my piece Yours and mine from Stilts issue 2. 

"Yours and Mine by Rhiannon Hartley is a short piece of memoir as opposed to a short piece of fiction, but it was so lovely I wanted to rec it anyway. Written for the sex issue of Stilts, a local, Brisbane journal, Yours and Mine covers relationships delicately and frankly, from pubescent boyfriends to falling in love with best friends. It's one of those horribly intimate pieces that resonates more than I generally care to admit, and that's really why it works."

It's really nice to be read and appreciated by people I don't know, especially when they record the experience on their blogs so I can read about it months after the fact. 

You can read more from Sophie's blog here and you can read Yours and mine and the rest of Stilts issue 2 here.

Obsessing over this week:

Julian Assange

Much like the wreck of the Costa Concordia or world hunger, the fact that Julian Assange was holed up in the Ecuadorian Embassy in London was a really big deal until it wasn't. 

Much like the wreck of the Costa Concordia and world hunger, he is definitely still there. Unlike the Costa Concordia or world hunger, he is also running for the Victorian Senate and launching a new search engine called "PLUS D." He also has a sun lamp. 


North Korea

Seriously what is UP with this whole situation? WHAT IS HAPPENING? How does the world deal with a problem like this? And I don't mean the nuclear "threat" because I find the rhetoric about all that to be a bit off. It's a mean truth that we only pay attention to countries like this when they're making bizarre-o threats to other Western countries. I've been thinking a lot about what happens when they stop making threats and, like the Costa Concordia and Julian Assange, we forget all about them for another five years and therefore also forget how poor and oppressed their people are. 
It's just so weird. 
I'm applying for a tourist visa as we speak. And if I get it I'll definitely be deleting this blog post. 


London Grammar



Put that inside you. 


Watergate

All I do is read conspiracy theories pertaining to American politics. 

I mean actually. Hours of my day. 

I don't know if we've learned anything but All the President's Men was on the other night and I think some really good docu-drama bio-pics are going to come out of this decade too and I fucking love that shit so I'm alright with it. 

I have committed a violent crime.

And in the same way,
That third girl
The broader one with the beautiful face is
the one you will keep going back to
not because of the face aforementioned
but because of the entire conjecture over
her being a woman at all
and everything that comes with that.
Because just as the moth is both near and far away
and just as your mouth is both open and closed,
and just as you both do 
and do not have a scar on the back of your hand
Your girl is both a woman and something 
else
And you both killed her
and breathed into her
life
And you both loved her
And felt nothing for her
Because you are both innocent and guilty
Because you are both beautiful and
ugly. 

Currently reading...

Modern Japanese poems, specifically Mutsuo Takahashi. I think this is the most beautiful thing I've ever read. 


Portrait of Myself as a Baby-killer

Shall I give you the true reasons why I have to kill babies
because a thousand newborn babies will one day be a
         thousand powerful kings
because I am in reality a humble beggar surrounded by a
         thousand kings
because the beggar must defend the throne and the throne
         must be kept apart
because the lonely sword must always be wet with the
         blood of kings
because the lonely beggar must be guarded by the ghosts of the 
         slaughtered kings
because my throne must receive the praises of the grief-
         stricken and cursing mothers of kings
Retainers and soldiers are alarmed and terrified but they do
         not know who I am
At midnight I rise from my throne and dragging my heavy
         gangrenous feet
Mount to the top of the palace observation tower the highest
         point in the kingdom
I gaze out upon the extent of that region reigned over by the
         beggar
Beyond the undulating plain that is still and soundless as 
         death itself
A thousand kings will be born when the tide is full in the 
         invisible sea
And my soldiers will run lifting their swords in their hands
Through the restless darkness the dawning darkness of my
         realm
I shall add a thousand grey hairs to my hair
I take a heavy breath and descend the stepts
Grey hairs grow thickly there even on the treads. 
                                                
                                                     - Mutsuo Takahashi 

Ten Forty

Sunday night Warhol.

This is very good. 

But Jesus Christ don't try to watch it in one sitting. 

Happy Winter Solstice.

A love poem for Ivan Idea.

Stop touching those candles

and stop

saying those stupid things,

You are fucking ridiculous

and 

repulsive

and the way you put commas in your sentences

makes me sick like a Mintie on a roadtrip

and you are so fucking beautiful that it tears my heart out 

So why can't you just put your tongue

back in

and stop being pleasant and enthusiastic 

Because you look so stupid
and I know you're not. 

And I wish you had loved me

But I wish I hadn't loved you,

because you are

pathetic

and I'm embarrassed by the cliché of loving your fucking face

and your horrible pile of bones.
Although your bottom lip was quite nice
and Jesus
you could speak
like no-one else. 
So I hope you'll be happy one day

but I doubt it because cowards are 
rarely 
happy.
And you 
are a coward
coward
coward. 

Ode to an Education

Since everyone is going through exams at the moment, I just thought I'd remind you all (in case you've lost sight of this via an increased sense of self-importance that is, to be fair, not your fault) that what you're doing is shit. 

Look at it. Look at your exam notes. They are so fucking boring and ridiculous it's embarrassing that you're even reading them. Do you even have the slightest interest in this stuff? And while you tell yourself that you are going to somehow benefit financially from this fucking degrading four year experience they call "getting a degree" that has forced you into pseudo-poverty for your entire adult life, haha, fucking joke's on you mate because the only people who get jobs in their chosen field after they graduate are people who did fucking revolting degrees like law or engineering or business so if you're one of those people then congratulations, they told you you were training to be an innovator and an entrepreneur didn't they? Ha, joke's on you again because what you actually signed up for is sitting behind a desk until you die choking on your own clogged arteries or the bile you've accumulated after fifty years of listening to women talk about fertility treatments and drinking fucking instant coffee like it's the elixir of life. And don't worry creative types, I haven't forgotten about you guys - I fucking hope you like the smell of body odour because you're going to go and do a graduate diploma and become a teacher now, putting all your creative genius to good use marking Macbeth essays and explaining how influential Frida Kahlo was to a bunch of gormless teenagers every year for the next hundred years because teaching doesn't even give you the dignity of retiring you before your tits start to sag below your belly button. Either that or you aren't doing the grad dip in which case, how is bartending/unemployment/living with your mum going anyway? Let's face it these are the prime years of our lives and while we should be using them to see the world and piss people off and prepare for the fucking zombie apocalypse, instead we're choosing to publicly masturbate for four years at Uni while our parents perversely look on in pride. 

Your degree is a fucking joke. I'm sorry but it is. It's going to churn you out along with thousands of other graduates at the end so you can become party to a fucking genocide of individuality whereby in the first five years of your career you undergo a process your parents will refer to as "growing up" but what is in fact the fucking removal of your soul through your anus and the connection of your brain to the mainframe of society so they can refill the space where your soul used to be with an interest in fad dieting and Siromet winery tours. And before you get your metaphorical knickers in a twist at me for being judgemental, I would just like to point out that I am currently, at this very moment returning home from an exam that was part of my own ludicrous tertiary education efforts so it is only in sympathy and solidarity that I tell you that you'd be better off dropping out and joining the fucking army or becoming a prostitute because let's face it, you're never going to look better than you do now and time is a-ticking till the day you'll want to pop out some miniature versions of your sucker self in the hopes that one day you'll be able to watch them publicly wank their way through a university degree just like mum and dad.

I wish you all luck with your exams and degrees, and hope that unlike me, when they dangle you by the ankle over the bog of eternal banality, you have the good sense to scream your guts out in protest before they drop you in it and you reek of disappointment for the rest of your days.

06/11/12

I was up all night and all day watching this happen. 

I'm glad.

Excerpts from "Four Years on the Southside."

"I'll never forget it, but I sometimes wish I could. That house. That horrible house where three of the people I've loved lived at one time or another. The sad one. The disappointing one. The one across the hallway.

After that it was a series of different houses within a short distance of the first one. One to pass the time. One to start over. One to recover from the first two. 

...

The Southside had its appeal. It was on the other side of the river. It was wide and open and had fewer trees and more trucks, which I liked because it spoke to my sensibilities as a reluctant and abashed member of the upper middle class. I thought looking at trucks instead of poincianas as I walked to work was giving me valuable life experience. Sometimes I would walk from Greenslopes to Buranda station trying not to let the construction workers see me crying, but I didn't think about what kind of life experience that might be giving me. 

I see now that it was probably more poignant, in this respect, than trucks."

1974.

This is my mum Tina at around the age I am now. 

She has been probably the best mother anyone could ever hope to have. I hope she realises this when she looks back on her life so far. 

Also, still waiting for these genes to kick in for me. Both the ones that made her such a good person and the ones that made her look like a 70s Calvin Klein ad. 

Abandonment issues, part 5; On the farm.

From the first glimpse of a horse, small and kindly-looking, with a yellowish coat and black mane;  the first trip to the chicken coop, a haphazard tin-and-wire structure in the corner of the yard; the first game of tug-o-war with a foolhardy but benevolent dog – I was hooked.

I don’t know how my somewhat estranged brother ended up owning a farm. I wasn’t really at the age where I was inclined to ask conveyancing-related questions. I was at the age where I looked cute wearing a leotard and a tutu and carrying a basket of fake flowers at said brother’s wedding. So were my sisters. It was, I think, mainly for this reason (the wedding, not specifically the leotards and tutus) that we took a seven week trip back to Australia just before I turned nine.

While we had moved to the UK, my brother, whose name is Nicholas but who has been known as Harvey all of his life for reasons unknown, lived on a stud farm near Busselton, Western Australia. I think their main source of income was a giant, rather frightening horse named “Chopin,” whom everybody called “Chops.” I didn’t get the joke until many years later when I started piano lessons. I thought the horse’s real name was simply “Show Pan,” and that like Harvey, he had been given a pseudonym that had nothing to do with his actual name.

We did a lot of things on this seven-week stint back in the motherland. We circumnavigated Uluru, visited my grandparents in Newcastle – I vaguely remember something about Sydney Harbour too, but really, one never remembers specific visits to Sydney. They all just mesh into one. But we also stayed on my brother’s farm for a while. I remember absolutely nothing about the house, or where we slept, or even talking to my brother much. I was eight and he must have been about twenty-two. At the time I thought he was old – a man – and placed little distinction between his age and that of my parents. It’s only now that I realise he was younger than I am now, and certainly quite young to be getting married.

What I do remember is loving the farm itself. I loved the hot sun on the coarse, browning grass. I loved the shrill, metallic notes that each steel gate sung when opened or closed. I loved the sacred sense of responsibility when entrusted with the task of collecting eggs from the chicken coop each morning; the sense of wonder each time that, overnight, these unassuming feathery dimwits had produced such miraculous feats of nature, and that we could eat said feats of nature for breakfast. There was a novelty in it that was appealing, for sure. But there was also a longer-term sort of personal satisfaction that as an eight-year-old, I was more inclined to phrase as “this is so cool.”

When I was in grade nine my parents bought Ironbark farm; 902 acres in the Hogarth Range, just southwest of Casino, NSW. For many years it too was a source of novel pleasures, from Schoolies week to renovation symposiums for Chinese PhD students. It had the same squeaky gates and scorched grass. But over the last few years I’ve begun to see its value as a living, breathing entity too. Its lack of mobile phone reception, internet or television, along with its constant need to be renovated, cleaned, painted, fixed, demolished and rebuilt is addictive. I have been unashamedly guilting my parents out of selling it for three years.

I’ve seen my brother maybe six times since his wedding, with increasing sporadicity. I know he moved to Melbourne and no longer seeks his fortune in farming. When people ask me what he does I say “he's in IT,” because he is, but that’s all I know. I’ve never asked him what inspired his brief period as a stud farmer. I’ve never asked him what inspired his decision to stop being a stud farmer. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever asked him a single question about himself except for “Harvey, why did you cut off all your hair?” 

As I move closer to the time at which I am bound to have a mid-twenties identity crisis (also known as finishing university and facing the prospect of starting one’s career) and entertain, with increasing enthusiasm, the notion of abandoning my aspirations as a schoolteacher and moving down to Ironbark full-time and becoming a hermit, I can’t help but wish I had, in fact, asked my brother these questions. Perhaps I will now, and maybe while I'm at it, I'll ask him exactly what it is he does in IT. 

Abandonment issues, part 4.

Abandonment issues, part 3; Does your prom dress still fit?

Today I did a good portion of the cleaning out of my old room wearing a $2000 silk prom dress because six years on, I don't really feel I've got my money's worth out of it. 

Abandonment issues, part 2; The third or fourth house.

In 1998, we bought our first family computer, on which my father wrote his 1999 book, Uses of Television. 

I suppose I was about eight, and used the computer to play the Babe computer game, which was fantastic, and make endless, horrible place-mats, cards and name-tags using some sort of Disney software that allowed you to cover all these items in different 101 Dalmatians pictures. 

I also used "Notepad" (wasn't allowed to use Word; not sure why) to write some of my first short stories which, if memory serves (it does, freakishly so) included the tale of a girl who lived inside a light bulb, a fairly generic rabbit story, and the various adventures of my many Mary-Sue-type characters of the day. I abandoned all attempts to write fiction soon thereafter. 

The computer room, pictured above, was the other half of the living room, and one of the many reasons why this particular house was and still is my favourite of our many houses between 1989 and 2001. 

1996 to 2000 was spent here, a deceptively lovely terrace overlooking Cardiff Bay, but not on the Cardiff side. It was stairs, horrible blue carpets, rocks and perfect Christmases spent on the floor in this living/computer room. Every house on the terrace had a bay-window at the front, and if you didn't have your Christmas tree and lights up in it by December 1, our neighbour Pauline would ask you why (she also hated the Willow tree you can see in the picture because it blocked our view of the Bay. She poisoned it one summer and it died). 

The room also had an over-the-top wooden fireplace. An ornate carving of five long grooves on either side of it reminded me of claw-marks and I ran my fingers along them almost every day. After we sold the house, it stood empty for a few months, during which this and the wrought-iron fireplace from upstairs were both stolen. I sometimes wonder where they ended up. 

Abandonment issues, part 1.

My younger sister Sophie has moved to Edinburgh to get a much better education than me and hang out with gay Spice Girls fans named Trent. 

Here is a picture of her as Draco Malfoy.

I miss her quite a lot. 

Abandonment Issues.

By February next year, almost all my close friends and family will have moved away. My sister has already moved to Scotland. My folks are in the process of moving back to Perth. My other sister is moving to Hobart and my two housemates and friends are moving to Melbourne. 

I will be documenting this fascinating process of mass-abandonment over the next few months, starting with the emptying and sale of our family home. If you like nostalgia, a few self-deprecating jokes and being nosy about what other people keep in their closets, you may enjoy reading my forthcoming blogs. 

Excerpts from "Orphans."

“The world hurts and I don’t want to live in it anymore.”

One of the many manic but truthful confessions I will carefully print into a Moleskine notebook, only to rip it out and re-write it because I used the wrong pen, or formed a letter imperfectly, or spaced the words unevenly. You can’t use white-out in a Moleskine – the slightly textured, off-white pages give you away immediately. Besides, if you’re going to leak all your inner pain onto a page in hope that it will somehow stay there instead of leaping back down your throat, you don’t want something as crude as white-out involved.

...

“You are beautiful like a thunderstorm.”

This one was for a long-lost lover. I was quite proud of this quaint little simile at the time. He was exciting and unpredictable in a way that made it impossible to do anything else while he was around – rather like a storm. He wasn't quite as pretentious as I was – he would have chosen Spirax over Moleskine to save money. But he was beautiful, that much was true. Far more beautiful than I was equipped for. When he left I realised I’d had an avalanche sitting on my chest for six months.