<h1>The tune of a different drummer</h1>

I once taught a young Aspergers boy, Brett. My class was at the National War Museum and a military fellow was describing warfare in the first world war. He was a good speaker and he used his voice to emphasize the dark parts of the battles and the class hung on his every word. Silence reigned in the darkened room as the presenter professionally kept 130 14-year-olds ensconced in his or her own mental version of no-man's-land.

Then the speaker described how in the darkest night the Germans, for example, would crawl across no-mans-land and kill their unsuspecting enemy. Here the speaker paused for effect but the silence and solemnity, the majesty of the moment, was broken.

"YOU MEAN THEY CHEATED!?!" Brett's innocent voice echoed off the walls of the armory.

His dignity shattered and now faced with 130 restless teenagers competing to see who could laugh the loudest, the speaker very wisely cut his presentation short and turned the rostrum over to the teachers to restore order.

What has that got to with PD?

Nothing, but....

I rolled out of bed yesterday and lying prone on the floor, I discovered that my left arm was too weak to support my efforts to get back on the bed. Too high! I realized that a stool in the living room was the correct height to enable the use of my right arm to leverage me to a standing position. I cannot tell you how I was able to get to that stool.

The arm was too weak to assume the traditional crawl but somehow, I made it and ended up with carpet burn on my forehead. I think I must have "squirmed" my way to my objective.

For some reason Brett's cheating Germans came to mind and I had to smile.

That's all. Except for a lesson learned, Get a Victoria Lifeline. I did.

Oh, I am back to "normal" (my definition).