In a world obsessed with identity labels, personality quizzes, zodiac signs, and spending 45 minutes choosing between 300 varieties of oat milk, a simple question haunts me: am I autistic, or am I really just a cat?

Stick with me. It’s not as daft as it sounds. (Or perhaps it is, but that’s very on-brand for untypicable.) After all, stranger things have happened. Somewhere right now, there’s probably a man in Croydon who genuinely believes he’s a Victorian lamplighter reincarnated. Compared to that, feline confusion is practically sensible.

Signs Point to Cat

Let’s start with the evidence. I enjoy solitude with a level of commitment that would make a hermit blush. I despise loud noises—fireworks, doorbells, overenthusiastic humans—all equally unacceptable. I routinely stare into the middle distance contemplating the futility of existence, preferably from a perch slightly higher than everyone else.

I will accept social interaction, but only on my terms and preferably when it involves someone scratching my head and telling me I’m clever (words of affirmation are my love language; actual physical affection, less so). Also, if you rearrange my environment without consulting me, I will sulk about it for a minimum of 48 hours, adding passive-aggressive side-eye for emphasis.

Additionally, I have an alarmingly specific routine: wake up, stare into the abyss, coffee, ignore humanity, nap, repeat. If my routine is disrupted, I may react dramatically—perhaps with a metaphorical hiss, or by knocking metaphorical (or actual) mugs off the metaphorical (or literal) table. There may also be tactical retreating under a metaphorical bed.

If that’s not cat behaviour, I don’t know what is. I’m practically one dramatic flounce away from demanding my own heated windowsill.

Signs Point to Autism

On the other paw—I mean, hand—there are a few things that suggest I’m not merely feline. For instance, I didn’t learn to purr (although, after particularly good coffee or the discovery of a new stationery shop, I do make a small, involuntary chirrup). My brain is wired a little differently: I experience sensory information with the intensity of someone who has had every sense turned up to eleven.

I have a collection of “special interests” that could rival a Victorian butterfly collector—intense, specific, and lovingly categorised. I struggle with the subtle art of interpreting sarcasm unless it’s delivered with the grace of a sledgehammer and a neon sign. I rehearse conversations in my head like I’m directing a Shakespearean tragedy, only to forget all my lines when the moment actually arrives.

These are, as any diagnostic manual will tell you, textbook characteristics of autism.

But… have you ever met a cat who does get sarcasm? Or one that doesn’t immediately take offence when you dare suggest they are not, in fact, the supreme overlords of the known universe?

Exactly.

The Venn Diagram is a Circle

At this point, it’s clear that autism and “being a cat” share a worrying amount of overlap. Strict routines? Check. Aversion to bright lights and sudden noises? Check. Strongly preferring one’s own company to the frenetic chaos of society? Double check, and throw in a nap. Bonus points for disliking being stared at for too long.

Perhaps the only real difference is that cats don’t have to fill out an 87-page Access Needs Assessment to be permitted to have their special blanket at university. Nor do they have to smile awkwardly through team-building exercises, desperately longing for a quiet room and a snack.

And honestly, if a cat ever had to navigate the average university seminar—full of tangents, off-topic debates, and the occasional smell of soggy sandwiches—they’d probably opt to fake their own death within minutes.

Important Disclaimer About Dogs

At this point, I must clarify that while I identify strongly with cat behaviour, I do, in fact, like dogs. Quite a lot, actually. Especially mine, who I sometimes suspect has undiagnosed ADHD. (Jokingly. Mostly. Although if you’ve ever seen him chase his own tail for ten consecutive minutes before forgetting why he entered the room, you’d understand my suspicions.)

He’s all enthusiasm, zero executive functioning, and a genuine joy to behold. Perhaps he, too, is asking himself existential questions—”Am I a dog, or am I a slightly malfunctioning tumble dryer?”

Diagnosis: Schrodinger’s Autistic Cat

Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. Maybe I’m a neurodivergent human who has simply unlocked the ancient, sacred knowledge of cats: that the world is often too loud, too bright, and too demanding, and that sometimes the correct response is to knock things over, vanish into the airing cupboard, and take a nap in a sunbeam.

If you’re reading this and relating a little too hard, you might be wondering the same thing. That’s OK. Whether you’re autistic, a cat, a neurospicy human with excellent taste in personal boundaries, or something beautifully in-between, there’s no wrong way to exist. (Unless you’re a pigeon. Then you’re just wrong. And probably judging me from the windowsill right now.)

So the next time someone questions your quirks, just stare at them unblinkingly, yawn, walk away, and maybe knock over a pencil on the way out for good measure. If nothing else, it’ll leave them suitably unnerved and wondering what ancient power you wield.

untypicable: your trusted source for all the existential dilemmas, imaginary diagnoses, and self-indulgent ramblings you didn’t realise you needed…

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

The post Am I Autistic, or Am I Really a Cat? appeared first on untypicable..

I used to think I was just… a bit odd. Not in a particularly dramatic or charming way—just gently, quietly misaligned with the rest of the world. Like everyone else had received an instruction manual at birth, and mine was either in a different language or had been lost in the post.

Of course, I functioned. I worked, I studied, and I navigated the world with something vaguely resembling competence. But underneath it all was a constant low-level hum of confusion. Why did everyone else seem to glide through small talk? Why were team-building days physically painful? Why did phone calls feel like preparing for an exam I hadn’t studied for?

For most of my life, I assumed this was just part of being human. Perhaps a slightly malfunctioning human. An overthinking one, maybe. But it never occurred to me that these persistent dissonances might actually have a name—and not only that, but that a whole community of people had been quietly living through the same soundtrack.

The Suspicion Years

In hindsight, there were signs. Many signs. I was told I was “a bit different” by more than one person. Teachers described me as intelligent but “difficult to place.” I often felt like I was watching conversations happen from behind a screen—able to follow, but somehow never quite able to join in naturally. It was like playing a game I hadn’t been taught the rules for.

Someone first mentioned autism to me about twenty years ago. I don’t remember the context exactly, just that I reminded them of their autistic nephew. I nodded, possibly said something like “Oh right,” and then proceeded to file the comment away under ‘mildly interesting, definitely not relevant.’ At the time, autism still carried a weight of stereotypes that didn’t match how I saw myself. I wasn’t Rain Man. I wasn’t counting toothpicks or reciting Pi. I was just… me. Slightly odd, quietly exhausted, frequently baffled, but still functioning.

There were a few other comments over the years—rarely unkind, mostly careful. My old boss once told me, with what I think was genuine warmth, “You definitely have your special ways of doing and understanding things.” At the time, I took it as a compliment. And really, it was. But it was also another little clue I managed to overlook.

Isn’t Everyone Just Faking It?

I genuinely believed everyone was faking it. Surely no one actually enjoyed parties? Surely everyone hated phone calls? I thought everyone needed to mentally rehearse what they were going to say before they walked into a room. That they also felt a small but constant background noise of anxiety whenever someone said “Can I have a quick word?”

So when I saw people moving through the world with ease, making casual conversation, joining in office banter, and answering the phone without visibly recoiling—I just assumed they were performing. Like I was. That they were masking, just better at it.

Turns out, no. A lot of them really are just fine. They’re not internally scripting responses or scanning for subtext or mentally bracing for unexpected questions about weekend plans. They’re just… being. The discovery of this fact was as shocking as it was deeply unfair.

The Discovery Phase

Looking back, the clues were there—scattered like breadcrumbs I wasn’t quite ready to follow. I’d always been told I was a bit odd, an outsider in the friendliest possible terms. Not ostracised, not unliked—just different. Like I’d arrived at the party of life a few minutes late, missed the instructions, and decided to improvise.

The first time someone mentioned autism to me was about twenty years ago. They said, casually, “You remind me of my nephew—he’s autistic.” At the time, I nodded politely and filed it under “Interesting but probably not relevant.” It didn’t seem to fit. I wasn’t antisocial, I didn’t have any dramatic meltdowns (at least not in public), and I wasn’t particularly fussed about trains—surely that ruled it out?

There were other moments, scattered through the years. A throwaway comment here, a curious glance there. None of it ever cruel—just gentle nudges I was perfectly content to ignore. I had, after all, spent a lifetime adapting, tweaking, overthinking and internalising. I thought I was just someone who happened to take things a bit literally, needed a lot of alone time, and had a strong dislike of ringing phones and vague plans. Who doesn’t?

Then there was my old boss, a very decent and perceptive person, who once told me with a kind smile, “You definitely have your special ways of doing and understanding things.” It wasn’t a dig. If anything, it felt like a compliment. I was different, yes, but in a way that seemed to work—like being a left-handed person in a right-handed world but still managing to write legibly with a fountain pen.

The real shift came when I began stumbling across people online who—astonishingly—thought like me. It started with a few blog posts, a couple of oddly specific memes, and a forum thread about autism in adults that felt like it had been lifted directly from my internal monologue. These weren’t people discussing grand, dramatic traits. They were talking about the small things: the mental fatigue from everyday socialising, the discomfort of overhead lighting, the obsessive, joyful dives into a specific topic that could last weeks.

I began to notice how many of the traits, habits and oddities I’d seen as quirks—or worse, flaws—were shared by these people. People who openly identified as autistic. People who weren’t ashamed. People who weren’t broken.

That’s when the realisation hit—not as a single, thunderclap epiphany, but more like the slow pulling back of a curtain. It wasn’t just me. And I wasn’t just “weird.” There was a pattern here. A shared language. A community I hadn’t known I was already part of.

And suddenly, all those things I’d brushed off made a kind of sense.

The “Oh, That’s Why” Years

Life post-discovery becomes a highlight reel of retrospective clarity. All those little social oddities you tried to rationalise suddenly snap into focus.

That time you didn’t go to a friend’s party because you genuinely couldn’t face the crowd? That wasn’t being antisocial. That was sensory overload avoidance. That week you couldn’t function after a three-day training conference? Autistic burnout. The way you couldn’t stop playing with your pen in meetings, or how you always had a “thing” you were obsessively into (Victorian rail networks, anyone?)—all perfectly textbook.

You start looking back with a new lens. All those odd habits and off-kilter interactions you’d long chalked up to personal quirks or “being difficult” now slot neatly into a recognisable pattern. There’s comfort in the explanation, but also a ripple of sadness. How many years were spent second-guessing yourself? How often did you try to change something that wasn’t broken?

It’s not about rewriting your whole past—just translating it more accurately. There’s a softness that comes with that. An ability to look back at the awkwardness, the overwhelm, the exhaustion—and not see failure, but a different operating system doing its best to run someone else’s software.

And that moment of realisation, the quiet “Ohhh, that’s why…”—well, that lands like a deep exhale after a very long inhale.

It’s not everything. But it is something. And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.

Masking: A Talent You Didn’t Know Was Costing You

The concept of masking—suppressing natural behaviours to appear more socially acceptable—was new to me. But the experience of doing it? Oh, that I knew intimately.

I had spent years performing. Not lying, exactly, just heavily editing. Watching people to learn the right responses. Practising facial expressions. Prepping small talk in advance like an actor running lines. I thought this was normal. I thought everyone did it. But apparently not everyone leaves a staff meeting feeling like they’ve just run a psychological marathon in clown shoes.

And it takes a toll. You don’t realise how much energy you’re spending trying to appear “normal” until you stop—or at least try to. And when you do, you’re left with the unsettling question: who am I when I’m not performing?

Conversations with Neurotypicals: Field Notes from the Other Side

Since I got used to the idea that I’m autistic, I’ve started noticing just how differently I process the ebb and flow of conversation. Not in some flashy, headline-making way—just in the quiet, granular mechanics of it. The bits most people don’t even realise they’re doing.

I watch people chat with casual ease, bouncing effortlessly from topic to topic, reacting in real time, cracking jokes that land correctly. They don’t rehearse. They don’t silently review every sentence they just said. They don’t sit up at 2 a.m. replaying a casual chat in Tesco and wondering if they accidentally insulted someone’s aunt. They just… talk. Unscripted. Instinctive. Like birdsong, but less melodic.

Meanwhile, I’m mentally running subtitles, adjusting tone, calculating timing, buffering.

Trying to explain this to neurotypicals can be… an experience. Some people are lovely—curious, respectful, and willing to listen. Others, not so much. There’s polite confusion, blank nodding, the occasional “but you don’t seem autistic,” and at least one person who will suggest yoga.

There’s always a moment of hesitation before I mention it, too. Because bringing up autism in conversation is rarely casual. There’s no slick segue from “So anyway, I love podcasts,” to “By the way, my brain is wired differently and I’ve been masking social exhaustion for four decades.”

But sometimes I feel the need to bring it up—not because I want to explain myself, but because I don’t want people to mistake me for aloof, disinterested, rude, or just a bit weird in a concerning way. Some say I shouldn’t have to explain it—and they’re right—but if I don’t, I worry they’ll walk away thinking I’m about to have some sort of breakdown because I excused myself from a team lunch due to “noise reasons.”

And when I do mention it? Oh boy, the cultural references start rolling in. Rain Man. Sheldon. The hacker guy from that one show. Sherlock Holmes if he’d had a therapist and less cocaine. And my personal nemesis: Dr. Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds, who manages to be both a genius savant and have a wardrobe budget. No pressure.

Here’s the thing: I’m not Rain Man. I can’t count cards or tell you how many toothpicks you’ve spilled. I don’t have photographic memory. I can’t solve crime scenes through deductive jazz hands. What I do have is an overactive brain that wants to know the rules but also second-guesses the rules, and a sensory system that sometimes reacts to overhead lighting like it’s a form of personal betrayal.

TV autism is all drama and dazzling intellect. Real-life autism is me sitting in the office or library wearing noise-cancelling earbuds, hyperfocused on a spreadsheet or section of my thesis, drinking a lukewarm tea I forgot I’d made. Less cinematic, more geeky.

But the good ones—the friends, colleagues, even strangers who just get it—they make the world a bit softer. They adjust. They don’t question the discreet but bright red ear buds. They don’t flinch when I go quiet. They don’t expect eye contact to mean emotional intimacy or laughter to equal happiness. They let me show up as me—even when I’m not entirely sure who that is yet.

Adjusting to the New Normal That Was Always There

Post-discovery life isn’t dramatically different. I still hate phone calls. I still prep emails like they’re formal apologies or an early draft of a Victorian Naval Treaty. I still retreat after social events. But now I understand why.

More importantly, I allow myself to accommodate. I build quieter days into my calendar. I say no without guilt. I stop trying to outmask myself. I lean into the things that bring comfort—even if they look weird to someone else.  Discreetly hidden fidget toys are a real benefit, so long as it doesn’t look like I’m fiddling with myself…

And beyond that, I’ve started to embrace acceptance—real acceptance—not the kind that comes with caveats or apologies. I’m not going to keep masking all the time, especially not at the expense of my own wellbeing. I won’t force myself to endure things that cause me mental and physical pain. If I need ear protectors in a noisy room, I’ll wear them. If I need to step away from a crowd, I’ll do it. To hell with what others think.

I will not be embarrassed for doing what I need to do. I won’t shrink myself to fit a mould. I will just be me—without apology, without shame, and without a script.

Because weird doesn’t mean wrong. And different doesn’t mean broken.

So… I Wasn’t Broken, I’m Just Autistic

Discovering I’m autistic didn’t change who I was. It explained who I’d always been. And it gave me the language to forgive myself—for the confusion, the overwhelm, the “special ways of doing things.”

It’s not a dramatic plot twist. It’s not the end of a journey. It’s a lens. A name for the quiet, lifelong feeling of being slightly out of step. And now, I’m learning to move to my own rhythm—awkward, specific, sometimes offbeat, but mine.

And if any of this feels familiar—if you’ve ever thought, “Wait, isn’t everyone just faking it?”—you’re not alone. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not just you either.

Oh, and if you do happen to discover that you’re autistic—don’t worry, it’s completely normal for it to become your hyperfocus for a while.

If this hit a bit close to home…

I’ve moved the ongoing “apparently this isn’t how everyone’s brain works” series to Quietly Neurodivergent — more writing on autism, masking, sensory overload, and the slow art of being yourself on purpose.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

The post Quietly Different appeared first on untypicable..

Alright, so you haven’t made a mistake and accidentally clicked on a link for the Daily Mail or the Telegraph with that headline, you have found us at untypicable in a mood to reveal a big secret. Neurodivergent people are the quiet ones in the meeting who seem to have an unnatural ability to notice when someone’s borrowed our pen (without asking). We are the ones who reorganise the office kitchen “just because it makes more sense this way.”

But what if all those quirks are part of something bigger? What if the hyper-fixations, the need for routine, and the obsessive attention to detail are all part of a master plan? What if—brace yourself—neurodivergent people are actually Bond villains in disguise, plotting to take over the world (or at least the office)?

Sit back, pour yourself a villainous cup of coffee (two sugars, no small talk), and let’s explore this theory.

The Hyper-Fixation Lair

Every great Bond villain needs a high-tech lair. For neurodivergent people, this isn’t an underground volcano—it’s our hyper-fixations. While others waste time debating last night’s football match or planning the next team-building exercise, we’re laser-focused on our pet projects.

You thought Karen’s obsession with perfect Excel formatting was just a quirk? Think again—it’s the foundation for her plan to create an unbreakable monopoly on office efficiency. Dave’s fascination with ancient Roman aqueducts? It’s not a hobby—it’s a blueprint for taking control of the water cooler hierarchy.

We don’t just have interests. We have schemes.

The Power of Silence

Ah, silence. To the untrained eye, it looks like passivity or shyness. But in reality, silence is where neurodivergent masterminds thrive.

While everyone else is busy brainstorming aloud or throwing half-formed ideas into the void, we’re observing. Watching. Calculating. Our minds are running simulations, predicting outcomes, and pinpointing exactly when to unleash the perfect comment.

That quiet colleague who never speaks in meetings until they suddenly drop the exact solution you needed? Classic villain behaviour.

The Stationery Arsenal

Bond villains love gadgets, and neurodivergent people have their own arsenal—stationery.

• Coloured pens: Not just for doodling but for creating intricate, colour-coded charts that map out every possible move in a meeting.
• Sticky notes: Perfect for leaving cryptic messages like “Review section 4. Or else.”
• The Whiteboard of Power: What looks like harmless brainstorming is actually the blueprint for a full-scale office revolution.

And don’t forget the clicky pen, which doubles as an intimidation tool when clicked repeatedly during tense discussions.

The Villain’s Weakness: Sensory Overload

Even the most diabolical plans have vulnerabilities, and for neurodivergent villains, it’s sensory overload. Sure, we can mastermind the reorganisation of the office filing system, but if the fluorescent lights start buzzing or someone starts eating loudly in the background, we’re out.

Picture a villain retreating mid-monologue because the room smells faintly of burnt popcorn. That’s us.

The Great Office Takeover

The endgame, of course, is total domination of the office. Not through chaos, but through meticulous, calculated change. Imagine a workplace where:

• Meetings are silent unless absolutely necessary.
• Open-plan offices are abolished forever.
• Small talk is outlawed in favour of “companionable silence zones.”
• The snack cupboard is restocked weekly and patrolled for biscuit thieves.

It’s not evil—it’s efficient.

The Big Reveal

Now, let’s address the question on everyone’s mind: are neurodivergent people actually Bond villains plotting world domination?

Of course not. (Or are we?)

In reality, this whole idea is satire—a playful way to poke fun at the misconceptions people often have about neurodivergence. We’re not quietly scheming to overthrow the office. Most of us are just trying to survive the day without having to explain, for the fiftieth time, why we rearranged the stationery cupboard “for better flow.” Yes, I have experienced first-hand someone who thought I was trying to mastermind the office, all down to not sharing my inner monologue at all times through the day, unlike them.

But the fact that this idea even feels plausible says a lot about how people misinterpret neurodivergent behaviour. Silence doesn’t mean plotting—it means processing. Hyper-fixations aren’t blueprints for domination—they’re passions that bring us joy. And our love of order isn’t about control—it’s about finding calm in a chaotic world.

So, no, neurodivergent people aren’t Bond villains. We’re just humans navigating a world that doesn’t always make sense to us. But hey, if organising the office snack cupboard with military precision makes us seem villainous, we’ll take it.

Conclusion: Or Are We?

Let’s leave it on a mysterious note. Neurodivergent people might not actually be Bond villains—but you’ll never be entirely sure, will you? Just know that the next time you see us quietly observing in a meeting, we’re probably not planning your downfall.

Probably.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

The post Neurodivergent People Are Secretly Bond Villains (and We’re Plotting to Take Over Your Office) appeared first on untypicable..

For most people, a trip to the supermarket is just another mundane chore—grab some milk, pick up bread, maybe splurge on a “two for one” offer you don’t really need. For me, as a neurodivergent thinker, it’s a carefully planned adventure into a swirling vortex of sensory chaos, social tension, and existential dilemmas. Each aisle is a minefield of unexpected challenges and moments of triumph. Here’s how it unfolds.

10:00 AM – Planning the Expedition

The first stage of any supermarket trip is reconnaissance. My list isn’t just a loose collection of items; it’s an intricate map of must-buys, ranked by urgency, with aisle numbers estimated based on previous visits. This isn’t over-preparation—it’s survival.

I mentally rehearse the route: in through the sliding doors (always too fast), start at sandwich meats (because it’s near the entrance), then the aisles in strict order, finishing triumphantly at the self-checkout. Timing is critical. Late morning means fewer crowds but also fewer social interactions with bored employees asking, “Can I help you find anything?”

10:30 AM – Entering the Arena

The automatic doors hiss open, and I’m hit by the supermarket’s unique sensory cocktail: fluorescent lights, distant pop music, and a faint smell of overripe bananas from the reduced-to-clear section. My brain starts calibrating—too bright, too loud, but manageable for now. I adjust my earbuds to block the worst of the din, armed with a playlist of soothing background music.

The first hurdle: the trolley. I grab one, carefully avoiding the sticky-handled renegades. It wobbles slightly to the left. No matter—this is my steed for the journey ahead.

10:35 AM – Sandwich Meats: The Meat of the Problem

I arrive at the sandwich meats section, but instead of efficiency, I’m met with a baffling array of choices. Sainsbury’s has somehow decided that a hundred types of ham is a good idea. Honey roast, smoked, unsmoked, thick cut, wafer thin, organic, budget-friendly, premium, or with a hint of maple syrup.

And yet, beyond the ham? Not much else. A token turkey slice, a sad pack of chicken tikka, and a single lonely pastrami. It’s like someone in the product department decided that the British public can’t survive without five different shades of ham but doesn’t deserve variety. I shake my head and grab the usual. The paradoxical choice overload leaves me questioning the point of it all. Don’t get me wrong, I like ham, but do other people eat it every day?

10:45 AM – Aisle 3: The Cereal Dilemma

The cereal aisle is where the real test begins. Faced with a dazzling wall of brightly coloured boxes, I feel like I’m navigating a social experiment designed to overload my decision-making circuits.

Do I stick with the usual or try something new? The cheerful mascots on the boxes seem to mock me with their oversized smiles. I finally grab my standby granola, but not before silently judging the overabundance of chocolate-flavoured options.

10:55 AM – Mid-Journey Fatigue

By now, the background hum of the supermarket is wearing on me. A child wails in the distance. Someone’s trolley squeaks incessantly. A cheery announcement about loyalty card deals blares from the loudspeakers. My brain, already processing at full capacity, starts to fray at the edges.

A quick glance at my list tells me I’ve deviated from the planned route. Aisle 7 was supposed to follow Aisle 5, but I’ve somehow ended up in Aisle 9. Panic bubbles. Do I retrace my steps or press forward? After a moment’s deliberation, I decide to adapt. Neurodivergence is nothing if not creative under pressure.

11:05 AM – The Social Gauntlet

It happens near the dairy section: the dreaded “someone I know” encounter. My heart sinks as they approach, trolley in tow, with a smile that says we must chat.

Small talk is my nemesis. Do I ask how they are? What if they ask me the same, and I respond too literally? We exchange pleasantries, during which I overthink every word I say. After three excruciating minutes, they wave and move on, oblivious to my internal exhaustion.

11:15 AM – Self-Checkout Showdown

I reach the self-checkout, my final hurdle. The machines beckon with their promise of independence but punish the slightest mistake. As I scan my items, the machine inevitably shouts, “Unexpected item in the bagging area.” I freeze, certain everyone is watching.

A kindly attendant comes to my rescue, but their well-meaning smile is almost worse than the error. They reset the machine. I mumble a thank-you, feeling a mix of relief and embarrassment.

11:20 AM – Escape and Recovery

The sliding doors part for the final time, and I step back into the world. No car waiting for me, just my feet and the cool air. The journey home is almost meditative, a sensory detox after the overload of the supermarket.

I adjust my grip on the shopping bags, enjoying the rhythm of walking and the relative silence. The sounds of nature—a bird chirping, leaves rustling—gradually untangle the knot in my chest. With every step, the sensory chaos of the past hour fades, replaced by a small sense of triumph. I made it through.

And relax…

A supermarket trip may seem mundane, but for a neurodivergent person, it’s anything but. From navigating sensory overload to decoding social interactions, every moment offers a unique challenge. Yet, it’s in these challenges that I find both humour and insight.

As I finally arrive home, unpacking my slightly excessive selection of ham and reliable granola, I reflect: it’s not about the destination—or even the groceries. It’s about finding joy in the journey, no matter how surreal it might seem.

No wonder I prefer home delivery!

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

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