Whitterer on Autism

Don't get me wrong, I'm delighted that he feels able to express his viewpoint verbally. I'd just prefer it if he could be a little more circumspect, especially whilst we happen to be in England.  I'm sympathetic to many of his complaints, that the milkshakes are too small and that weather is too big, but loud mouthed Americans are just to much of a cliché, even for him.

Handy travel hint of the day – to ensure that your suitcases are fresh for next year, tuck a tumble drier sheet inside before storage.  Take care to assess whether or not tumble drier sheets should be eliminated from your life style, along with the tumble drier to reduce your carbon footprint on the planet.  Should you suffer the misfortune of someone vomiting in your suitcase, admit defeat and chuck away the suitcase, carbon footprint be damned. Be grateful that your brain torture has ceased and that the mysterious stench is no longer mysterious.  Don't forget to thank the thoughtful child that shut the suitcase after use.

Normal service shall be resumed as soon as humanly possible.

“What is dat?” he asks breathlessly.

“It is a sweet potato,” I explain, worryied whether it is indeed a sweet potato or whether I am unwittingly providing him with false ammunition to beat me with later.
There seems to be a great deal of confusion between what is a yam and what is a sweet potato? I have never sought to clarify this deficit, despite having been a resident for more than a decade and a citizen for a few years, because they are both loathsome. As a vegetable they are vile because they are sweet, but to put them in a pie is equally as reprehensible. Who ever heard of carrot pie? [Translate = a transvestite of a flan]

“No, it is a humungeous lemon!” he announces. That probably means that it is a yam and not a sweet potato? What on earth have I purchased, and why did I listen to the advice of the checker. [translation = probity of checker dubious due to the fact that she was unfamiliar with Swedes. {sub translation = rutabagas]

“It is a potato lemon?” he blurts, raising his eye brow, hoping for a hit.
I prod it, to see if the skin will come off yet.
“May be,” I add dubiously.
“It is disgusting anyways, any road up!” [Aside = gosh he automatically translated himself!] Soon junior son will be five.

For the first three and a half years of his little life he ate almost an exclusive diet of sweet potatoes, as only orange food was acceptable by that time. As he reached his fourth birthday, pureed carrots were out and he had an orange aura about his person. [translation = carrotine poisoning?] He would surely have perished without the intake of the humble sweet potato in such vast and exclusive quantities. I can't say that I view little orange gold fish crackers as a nutritional advance, orange or not.