The Boy Who Fell to Earth Read Online Free PDF

parenthood meant that I arrived at 8.55 and left at 3.30, which couldn’t get me the sack as they were the hours I was contracted to do, it was considered a ‘pretty poor show’ by my colleagues. Keen teachers run drama and chess clubs after school and apply for advanced skill status, which I should have been doing by this stage. Yes, I am a career woman, I told anyone who would listen, but my tip for young women today …? Just stick to the traditional investment path and inherit many hotels. I also gave up all ideas of penning a novel. It seemed a bit pointless – now that I was actually
in
one.
    At home, I started to master my own DIY. Well … more or less, if you don’t count the day I gave myself an impromptu perm in a bizarre electrical accident. I learnt to do housework in half the time. This involved a particularly athletic feat of changing both Merlin’s sheets and duvet cover, flipping and airing the mattresses, and all without waking him once. Martyred domesticity dominated my days. I took to calling myself ‘St Lucy’ of Lambeth. I practically booked myself in for a halo fitting.
    Minus Jeremy, life with Merlin became glutinous. Pushing through it was an effort, like swimming underwater against a tide. My second favourite mothering experience was talking to Merlin’s pre-school teacher about my son’s educational progress, my favourite being stubbing my toe repeatedly on the vacuum cleaner until it went gangrenous. In quick succession, Merlin was expelled from three nurseries, Montessori, Sure Start and Tiny Tots. Whenever the phone rang, I steeled myself for the voice of his most recent head teacher, dreading the four lethal words ‘Could you pop by?’ Whenever I was summoned to the pre-school office, a sense of trepidation as heavy as a winter coat hung on my shoulders. It appeared that Merlin’s teachers wanted combat pay. I felt as though my son had been voted ‘Kid Least Wanted in a Classroom’ by teachers countrywide.
    And I could understand why. Merlin’s moods were a pendulum swing from dark to light, joy to despair. He’d gaze ahead in silent absorption, as if taking the pulse of the universe. For hours he’d just stare into space, as though he could hear secrets the wind was whispering. Then anxiety would creep up on him like a spy and there’d be an avalanche of frustrated rage for no obvious reason. Oh, where was my Owner’s Manual? Then perhaps I could understand why his clothes seemed to scorch him. Each morning, as I tried to dress my son, he’d toss and buck like a horse attempting to escape from a saddle, leaving me bruised and battered.
    Ah yes, you learn many things when you’re the mother of someone with autism, like the fact that cats are not the only creatures with nine lives. There are also guinea pigs, goldfish, rabbits – even pet geckos are more durable than they look. (Although if put into the blender with the lid off, your kitchen will quickly achieve a new interior-design look you could only really call ‘art gecko’.)
    You also learn that embarrassment, like hair gel for a bald bloke, is a luxury not afforded to you. Nor is there any escape. Not only have you had a baby, but you’ll
always
have a baby. What I mean is that your son won’t grow into a man, he’ll grow into a giant toddler. With a psychological umbilical cord that attaches you for life.
    Merlin’s volcanic tantrums turned him into Lana Turner, John McEnroe and Bette Davis all rolled into one fun bundle. After calming his meltdowns with cuddles and counselling, anointing his anxieties with ‘You’re so clever’s until he felt better, I would be left as wilted as an old lettuce leaf. A lettuce leaf that was about to be arrested for child abuse – which would be the only conclusion the neighbours could reach, after all that hullaballoo.
    The rest of my time I devoted to happy little hobbies like buying presents for nursery teachers or neighbours to apologize for Merlin’s erratic, sometimes