Class was good today. We had a lecture about vegetative propagation followed by a tour of the propagation units in the garden. After a long lunch chatting with my friends, we had a lecture about leaf formation. This lecture was not so good because there was a hole in my bucket. The desk I chose to sit at had a bucket, because of a hole in the roof. It was a leaky bucket, and the tapping of droplets was starting to get to me. I have another friend who probably has Auditory Processing Disorder in my class. She has said before that noises of computers, screens, air-conditioning and humming machines have been distracting for her. I know the feeling- before Johansen IAS therapy I used to be just like that. The bucket was really distracting me. I felt like bursting out laughing at the silliness of this annoying situation. Half of me wanted to storm out in frustration with the noise, and the other half (the half which was tired and very over-excited about band practice after college) just wanted to sing “there’s a hole in my bucket!” then slide off my chair giggling.
I was really excited about practice tonight, worried that I’d be able to make it on time, and frustrated about my holy bucket. Every so often, the drips would move towards me and I’d have to shift the bucket, or myself when water dropped on my head. People with APD are known and sometimes identified by poor concentration skills. Actually, our concentration skills are fine. It’s just that everyday stimulus is more distracting to us.
I left class a little early, dashing to the flat to pick up my cymbals and the baked-potato dinner I had made yesterday.
The train price was high, but faster than bus and I missed the rush hour. Soon I was back home, tramping Glasgow rain. It was so great to see my friends. They’re like my big brothers and sister. Great music too. We might have our first gig next month!
The owner of the studio we practiced in tonight must think I’m really goofy. I managed to get a cymbal stuck solid on a stand and lock myself out of the sound-proofed studio. Tapping on the door and shouting at my friends through the window in it did not work. He must have heard me and came upstairs from his office to let me back in.
My friends gave me a lift home. My parents were on holiday, leaving an empty house. They left me a note on the table sending their love and saying that I could eat anything in the house I wanted, including the elderly, apologetically sagging pineapple beside the note. A week at home with no one to complain about noise levels or evict me from my drums in the attic. Heaven.