Yesterday, I took the boys shopping to Basingstoke. As I’m not currently able to walk far, I sat in Starbucks armed with my iPad to do some work, while they toured Festival Place, pockets filled with Christmas cash.
Now, I’m not good at Starbucks. I don’t even like coffee that much and would rather not consume my daily calorie allowance in one latte topped with whipped cream. Then, what size do you want? I can’t even remember what the sizes are called, never mind how big they are. By the time I get to the front of the queue, I’m as glazed as a doughnut, so I always go for tea, Earl Grey, errm, medium? Ish? I know, it’s very “Mrs Brady, Old Lady” of me.
I had a proud moment, marvelling at how Asperger’s Son2, 13, was now able to queue and ask for what he wanted by himself as well as meander round the shopping centre (that he knows well) without me.
I watched from my seat as he made his choice, paid and wandered over to end to await his order. Then Son1 appeared, exchanged a few words with his brother and came over to me, looking incredulous.
“He said the woman asked what his name was to put on the cup and he told her it was David!“
David is not Son2′s name. Not even one of them. Not even close. Son2 approached with his drink and I asked him why he’d said that it was.
He shrugged. “I panicked!” he said. I understood immediately, for, dear reader, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
We headed back to the car but it soon became apparent that Son2 was not enjoying his choice of beverage, a Vanilla Spice Latte. He passed it to Son1 who asked him why he’d chosen it.
Son2 grinned. “I panicked…”