We managed to get back to the car without incident, both glad to put the bargain-seekers behind us. Thankfully, getting Danny into the car has never been a problem, he enjoys riding around, watching the scenery flash by. Normally he sits in the back and throws out imperious commands for increases in speed or a change in direction. Paul lets him sit in the front, joking that Danny has a better sense of direction than I do. He may be right but I do wish he wouldn't let him, he fiddles so much it makes me nervous. After manhandling the shopping into the boot, trapping my fingers several times and removing Danny from the front seat of the car I sent Johnnie a text,

R u bk 4 t? Danny lkin 4ward 2 seein u. x

I'm quite proud of my ability to write in textspeak although Johnnie tells me it's embarrassing - apparently I should insist on using correct grammar and syntax in all forms of communication. I hoped he would get the message, I thought I'd struck a good balance; a gentle reminder with an almost negligible trace of parental nagging, a little feather-light emotional blackmail and I resisted the urge to add my love to the end of the text - another apparently cringeworthy parental habit. Hoping that there would be no last minute plan changes to explain I turned to Danny,

'Ready? Shall we head home sweetheart?'

'Yeh, lets go home for chicken for tea. You got a text message?'

Danny the technophile, his obsessive interest in all things electronic can be a little wearing at times I have to admit.

'No, I was just sending a message to Johnnie to ask what time he'll be home.'

'Oh. He'll be home for tea.'
 
The last said with utter scorn for a parent who had been seemingly foolish enough to miss the fact that Johnnie was coming for home in time for tea.

'Well maybe. We'll have to wait for his reply won't we?'

As soon as the words escaped my mouth I knew I had made a mistake and let myself in for some incessant imagining of incoming text messages. Too late to worry about that I started the car and prepared to navigate my way out of the multi -storey car park - a challenging task at the best of times. I was halfway out of the space when Danny's voice piped up from the back,

'Oi. Wait. I haven't got my seat-belt on yet.'

'Come on then, you've had plenty of time to fiddle with it, you'll have to do it whilst we're driving out of the car park.'

'No I won't! It's dangerous. Stop. I haven't got my seat-belt on yet.'

'Well come on then, get it on.'

We had to wait then whilst he fiddled with the seat-belt catch. It was my fault really, his fine motor control isn't good and he finds the seat-belt tricky to put on. I should have done it for him before we left but, preoccupied with thoughts of Johnnie, I had forgotten. Needless to say it didn't improve my mood when a Land-Rover-driving pillock tried to squeeze past us, nearly taking off the wing mirror in the process. I bit my tongue, Danny has a tendency to repeat everything he hears and I didn't want to expand his vocabulary any faster than his peers at school were already taking care of. Eventually he managed to get the seat-belt done up and I was permitted to get on with the business of driving us both home through the rush hour traffic, a chore that fills me with horror at the best of times. Thankfully we had chosen not to venture far afield and thirty minutes worth of stress and terrible driving by other road users saw us home with only one minor incident. I was navigating the vast motorway island close to our house - quite why they have to be so large and needlessly complex is beyond me, when my mobile went off.

I detest the mobile going off in the car at the best of times, it always makes me jump and ever since Johnnie changed my ring-tone to some dreadful heavy metal singer screaming his guts out I dread receiving a text message. Unfortunately I can't work out how to change the tone back to normal and I'm too embarrassed to ask Paul or Johnnie to do it for me. They already tease me enough for being a bit of a technophobe - which I'm not, I'm just don't see why we have to rely on electronic gadgets for everything. If the power went off most of England would shut down. Anyway, I don't wish to give them any more ammunition, the constant jibing gets very tedious after a while if I'm honest. I have therefore developed a knack for pretending that there's nothing I would rather listen to than a 40 year old dread-locked male sweating and screaming about necrophilia. I'm not sure whether Johnnie is convinced by my front, he can't decide whether he's more embarrassed that I'm pretending to like his music or that I've noticed that the song he has put on my mobile is about necrophilia. Not only did I have the tone going off but the added distraction of Danny,

'Your phone's ringing. You've got a text message. What does it say?'

'I don't know Danny, we'll read it when we get home, OK?'

'Oh, alright then. What does necrophilia mean?'

That did it, somewhat shocked, I turned around to stare at Danny, managing to swerve at the same time. I never have been good at moving head and hands separately.

'Mum. You're going to crash.'

It was said very matter-of-factly but I jerked round to see that we were heading straight for a Volkswagen Polo with red L-plates on the back that was crawling around the roundabout. It was attempting to stick to to the inside lane but straddling two as the driver tried to avoid hitting the kerb on his inside. My own learner-driver days are not that long ago and I always try to be patient when stuck behind a learner, remembering all too well my own mind-numbing terror at being in control of a car. On this occasion however, both horn and brakes were vigourously applied as we skidded past the Polo with inches to spare and slid off at our exit.

Much of Danny's speech is indistinct, there are certain sounds he can't make and, especially when he's excited, the words all jumble together. He can also be a bit deaf at times, owing more to the fact that he doesn't concentrate than to any physical impairment I feel. However, give him a screaming metal maniac, who I find hard to understand, screaming obscene lyrics and he repeats them like a dream. The ultimate proof that there is no justice in the world. Grateful for small mercies I thought that at least our brush with the Polo had put him off the scent a little although I was imagining the note that might appear in his home-school book before long.

'We've had trouble with Danny today. He arrived in school in a silly mood without his coat. He was also seen to ask his dinner lady what 'necrophilia' was. Obviously we do not believe this is appropriate language for him to be using in school and have taken the appropriate disciplinary actions. We would be grateful if you could follow this up at home.'

I imagined the reply I'd like to send,

'No shit Sherlock. Funnily enough we're not too keen on him talking about necrophilia either. However, it may have come to your attention that Danny has Down Syndrome, probably has no idea what the word necrophilia is or, whilst we're at it any conception of 'appropriate' language. I'd be only too delighted if you were able to explain these concepts to him. I look forward to observing your progress.'

Unfortunately I would actually have written a rather more neutral reply. They have a talent for making big deal out of things at Danny's school, flagging it up to the kids that they can get a reaction out of certain types of behaviour - some of the staff haven't got the sense they were born with. I kept my fingers crossed that day that Danny would at least forget the end of the word and perhaps not repeat it to all and sundry.

Incident over, the rest of the journey proceeded more or less smoothly. We got home to find the drive empty, generally an indication that golf had been followed by a couple of pints which would normally be followed sometime later with a 'phoned request for a lift home. A little exasperated although unsurprised I checked my mobile for Johnnie's text before embarking on the business of getting Danny and the shopping indoors,

'Hi Mum. Nt sure wen I'll b bk. Wrkin l8 2nite, pays gud overtime. C u l8er. J'