SCOTT

GRUMPY OLD BUGGER

YOU SEE AN UNMADE BED…

…I SEE A CATASTROPHE’

I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING. ARE THESE THE RAVINGS OF A LUNATIC? THE DERANGED RAMBLINGS OF AN ESCAPED MENTAL PATIENT? NO... RATHER MY BOYFRIENDS SOMEWHAT OVERBLOWN RESPONSE TO MY ‘FORGETTING’ TO ADJUST THE DUVET INTO AN EXACT ALIGNMENT WITH THE MATTRESS ONE MORNING.

‘YOUR DAUGHTER’S RIGHT…YOU HAVE ADHD’

HE THROWS IN FOR GOOD MEASURE.

You should have seen him. Jumping up and down like Rumpelstiltskin. Hurling a torrent of vile abuse at me, such as ‘I like it tidy’ and ‘have you finished with that cup’. I seem to recall that particular exchange ended up with me doing the grown up version of running away from home. Sitting in the car outside the house for forty five minutes. Listening to Jess Glynne singing ‘Hold My Hand’, pretending I was on a plane somewhere nice and never coming back.

I wouldn’t mind, my being here takes a minimum of 9 hours travel (one way). I have to pack everything I may possibly need for the month, including my coffee machine, CPAP and enough ill-fitting vests to open a shop. There’s bound to be a little untidiness. If I could fit it all into a smaller space I’d be on Britain’s got Talent pulling doves out my hole. You’d think the whiny wee bastard would be a bit more understanding.

Lately, he’s started trying to ‘contain’ the fallout. A bit like they did at Chernobyl, only with thicker walls. I’ve been ‘given’ a room in which to make a mess. He stands in the doorway, looking at me with an alternating combination of fondness and disgust. Like some sort of sick puppy training centre. Except every so often, when he thinks I’m not looking, he’s lobbing his dirty underwear onto my floordrobe and its messing with my head.

Floordrobe. That was a new one on me, but a phrase that made perfect sense when I broke it down. A wardrobe… consisting of your clothes…strewn across the floor. Where you know where they all are. It seemed perfectly reasonable. Normal even. Until someone threw their mess into the middle of it.

My eldest daughter, hearing of these sort of exchanges (or seeing me bruised and beaten, I forget which) suggested it was an indicator of potential for ADHD. I raise what I can of an eyebrow. Is she being shady? She’s a lesbian, they’re known for it. Not being shady. I mean being so subtle about it you don’ t know if they’re being shady.

I smile. ‘ADHD…me. Pfft’ and haven’t cooked.

Now I’m no medic. Though someone once remarked I’d fucked more doctors than Matt Hancock, but surely there has to be more to a diagnosis of ADHD than being a trifle disorganised. I go to Google it, but forget what I’m doing and find myself looking at videos of cakes being decorated for three hours.

Come to think of it, if this is my new hobby, I’m going to need all the premium equipment. Like a little blowlamp for my crème brulees and piping nozzles and … oh my cards been declined.

I did actually do this with bread. My mum asked did I want a stand mixer. Fast forward to a fortnight of baguettes, bagels

Please note, this column is the opinion of the columinst and not that of GNI or Romeo & Julian Publiccations Ltd.

Cakes… that’s what I’ll do. I’ll do some baking. Not just any old baking. Procrastibaking. Who needs to deal with problems, or life admin or really important stuff (like this article) when you can make cakes. Or bake bread. Or order kitchen thermometers because it’s important to know the internal temperature of a joint of beef…that you don’t have… and baps. As I say that out loud it sounds like a drag show. I cast my mind to the unhealthy volume of various sized loaf pans and cake decorating tools. All packed helpfully away in a big crate behind the piano. Come to think of it I’ve got 14 kilos of different coloured ready made fondant icing in that crate.

Where was I? Oh yes, ADHD. Apparently being a completer / finisher is alien to those with ADHD. They love to start new things. They are very creative. They just can’t be arsed seeing anything through to a conclusion. So I start to think of my hobbies. They do all seem short lived. OH MY GOD I BOUGHT A PIANO!?! What’s that doing there still? Lurking in my living room like some angry ex that won’t move on.

The professional modellers clay I started making wire frame models from. Happiest fifteen minutes of Covid that was.

I once went ice skating as I had a dream it was really easy. I took the day off work. I went to the ice rink, strapped on some disgustingly damp skates and then felt a combination of horror and ‘Please God, let nobody be looking’ when I realised I wasn’t a professional ice skater like I had genuinely convinced myself I was. To actually have that realisation – ON THE ICE was a slap in the face. This is nothing like my dream I thought, as some old lady went whizzing by like she’d been shot out of a cannon.

I was genuinely perplexed. Why was it so different from my dream. It’s a good job it wasn’t a flying dream. That could have been a rude awakening. Though it makes you wonder why when people overdose and think they can fly they go to a rooftop to test that theory. They never try taking off from ground level. Or maybe they do and don’t have a column in this magazine.

Where was I… Oh, ADHD symptoms yes. I thought this was just part and parcel of being gay. That innate sense of ‘well I’m special so I must be able to do [insert any activity here] and do it to a standard you’d think I was a professional’. I went to the gym once. Back when I was straight. Saw the personal trainers in action. Like every gay men ever I thought ‘I could do that’. Took the exams, said ‘push, push, c’mon’, got bored and left. Come to think of it, I also thought I could be a midwife. Maybe I could.

I once worked as a telephone psychic. No really. I didn’t set out to be psychic. I just thought ‘how hard can it be?’. Within a few weeks word got out and ‘genuine’ psychics were phoning me for advice and life lessons. I’m not making this up I swear. I had a doctor phone me once. Three hours she was on. I was dying for a wee. She was making decisions on a legal case based on me turning cards over on the other end of the phone. Actually, rambling aside, spiritualism is a good example of gays being special. Or more specifically, male spiritualists.

Find me a straight one. You can’t. They’re all gay. They’re all gay because we will do and say anything just to be different. Including pretending to talk to the dead.

My brother is the same. Not gay… or a spiritualist come to that. I mean he exhibits symptoms of ADHD (familial link… it’s all adding up). Fixing things until they are broken. Attention span of a gnat. I would have said goldfish but gnat sounded better.

To be fair he’s ten times worse than I am. Some people get intrusive thoughts. He lets them play out into reality. Things like ‘I wonder what will happen if I let go of this zip line’ (Spoiler - concussion) or

ADHD. In the meantime, my boyfriend (I’ve actually proposed really badly twice in the last week, so I may make this the third)…I mean fiancé, can keep hiding my keys and my wallet and making me think I’m going mad until I get an actual diagnosis.

Until that point… *turns card…’Oh…death… …No, that’s good… Means…new beginnings…’ *cough