Some people have a superhuman ability to remember names. They meet you once at a networking event, and three years later, they greet you with a warm, “Hey, AJ! How’s your dog, Merlin?” Meanwhile, you’re standing there in a cold sweat, frantically searching the dark corners of your brain for anything—anything—about this person beyond vague familiarity. You know the face… your really do, but the name just won’t come.

For me, names are my personal kryptonite. I can remember the entire backstory of a Breaking Bad character, the exact coffee order of a friend I haven’t seen since 2016, and why that one scene in a random TV show perfectly represents late-stage capitalism—but a human name? Gone. Evaporated. Erased from my brain as quickly as an email about “exciting new workplace policies.”

If you, too, suffer from this affliction, fear not! This article is both a mourning of our useless brains and a strategic survival guide to dodging, deflecting, and (on rare occasions) actually remembering names.

1. The Sudden Realisation of Doom

The worst moment isn’t when you forget someone’s name—it’s when you realise you’ve forgotten their name.

This often happens mid-conversation, right after they greet you enthusiastically by name, with a tone that suggests you should 100% know theirs too. This is panic territory. You now have seconds to react, and your options are:

1. Fake confidence. (“Heeeyy… you!”)
2. Stall for time. (“Wow, it’s been ages! What’s new?”)
3. Create a diversion. (“LOOK! A DISTRACTED PIGEON!”)
4. Accept your fate. (Smile, nod, pray they bring up their own name.)

Unfortunately, none of these guarantee success. If you’re unlucky, the conversation escalates into an even worse scenario: introductions.

2. The Hell That is Introducing People Without Names

The moment you’re in a group and need to introduce someone whose name you’ve forgotten is a true test of character.

Tactic 1: The Fake-Out Introduction

You introduce the person you do remember and hope the mystery guest fills in their own name.

“Oh, you two should meet! This is Sarah, and… well, I’ll let you introduce yourself!”
This sometimes works, but only if they’re not also a name-forgetter. Otherwise, you end up standing in awkward silence, both waiting for the other person to speak.

Tactic 2: The Vague Gesture

You sort of gesture toward them, hoping they say something first.

“And this is… uh, an absolute legend, by the way.”
Congratulations, you have now created a social situation so awkward it might be studied by anthropologists in the future.

Tactic 3: The Sudden Overuse of “Mate” or “Dude”

If you’re British, “mate” will save you 70% of the time.

“Oh yeah, me and this legend go way back, don’t we, mate?”
Other variations include:

• “Champ!” (A terrible choice unless you’re a 1950s boxing coach.)
• “Boss!” (If you work in sales, this might actually get you promoted.)
• “Big guy/little guy!” (Use with caution unless you want to get punched.)

3. The Worst Case Scenario: Being Called Out

Sometimes, people realise you don’t remember their name and—worst of all—call you out on it.

Them: “You don’t remember my name, do you?”
Me: I would rather fall into a volcano than answer this question honestly.

At this moment, you have two choices:

1. Admit defeat. (“I am so sorry, my brain is made of soup.”)
2. Deflect with unnecessary enthusiasm. (“Oh my god, of COURSE I do! It’s… you!”)

Some people will kindly reintroduce themselves. Others will let you suffer for dramatic effect. You deserve this.

4. Strategies for Long-Term Name Avoidance

If you consistently forget names, you need systems in place to avoid total social catastrophe. Here are some elite-level avoidance tactics:

The “Saved by Social Media” Strategy

Before meeting someone, do a stealth check on LinkedIn, Instagram, or Facebook. Scroll until their name lodges itself into your brain. Caution: If you go too deep, you risk accidentally mentioning their holiday from 2014, exposing yourself as a certified stalker.

The “Nickname Everything” Approach

You assign people vague but memorable nicknames in your head:

• Beard Guy (self-explanatory).
• Talks Too Much Steve (not even sure if he’s a Steve).
• Mysterious Hat Woman (the hat is now more important than her name).

The problem? If they change their look, you’re screwed.

The “Let Someone Else Go First” Trick

If you’re in a conversation and someone new joins, pray that introductions happen naturally before you have to say their name. If that doesn’t happen, you are trapped.

“Hey… you! Have you met… my friend here?” (Prays they introduce themselves to each other.)

5. The Tragic Reality: You Actually Can Remember Names, But Only Too Late

The final insult? Your brain does remember their name… just 20 minutes after they’ve left the conversation.

You’ll be walking home, sitting at your desk, or in the shower when suddenly—BOOM!

“Oh my god. It was JASON.”

Too late. Jason is gone. He probably already thinks you hate him. The damage is done.

Embrace the Chaos

At some point, you have to accept that you’re bad with names and lean into it. Own it. Make it part of your brand.

Next time someone says, “Do you remember my name?” just confidently reply:

“Listen, I barely remember my own name some days, so let’s just reintroduce ourselves like it’s the first time. Clean slate.”

They’ll either appreciate the honesty—or back away slowly, assuming you have amnesia.

Either way, problem solved.

Final Thought: A Radical Solution

What if we all just agreed to wear name tags, all the time?

• No more awkward moments.
• No more name-based shame.
• Just a society where everyone is labelled like they’re at a work conference, forever.

Until that glorious day, may your stalling techniques be strong, your fake confidence unshakable, and your vague “mate” usage convincing.

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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 The Agonising Art of Forgetting Names: A Survival Guide 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.

untypicable.co.uk

The post Diary of a Neurodivergent Supermarket Trip appeared first on untypicable..

Picture this: the tea has been poured, the conversation is flowing, and the communal tin of biscuits has been enthusiastically raided. Now, as the chatter quietens and the tea cools, there it sits—a solitary biscuit. A lone digestive or a forlorn custard cream, abandoned at the bottom of the tin, its fate hanging in the balance. No one dares to take it, and yet no one offers a solution to the awkwardness of its existence.

This isn’t just about biscuits, though, is it? The same drama plays out with the last mince pie at Christmas, the final splash of coffee in the cafetière, or the single remaining tea bag in the box. These moments of communal hesitation, these acts of culinary brinkmanship, tell us something peculiar about ourselves—not just as Brits, but as humans navigating the tangled web of politeness, guilt, and unspoken rules.

The Politeness Problem

At the heart of this phenomenon lies our unrelenting desire to appear polite. As a nation, we are bred on a diet of social etiquette and a pathological fear of being perceived as greedy. Taking the last biscuit feels like crossing an invisible boundary, as if seizing that digestive will forever brand you as someone who cannot control their base urges.

And so, the last biscuit sits there, a crunchy beacon of awkwardness. Everyone pretends not to notice it while secretly eyeing it with the intensity of a Bake Off finalist. You offer it around, of course—“No, you have it,” “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,”—a ritualistic dance of self-denial that prolongs the biscuit’s abandonment. What begins as politeness morphs into a shared discomfort that no one is brave enough to resolve.

The Fear of Judgement

There’s an undeniable element of performance to all this. Taking the last of anything—whether it’s the last Jaffa Cake at a party or the final mince pie after Christmas dinner—feels like putting yourself in the spotlight. Everyone notices. Everyone has an opinion.

“Well, someone had to take it,” they might say, but deep down, you imagine them silently judging your audacity. You fear being labelled the kind of person who takes more than their fair share, even if no one wanted it in the first place. It’s a ridiculous charade, but one that persists nonetheless.

It’s Not About the Biscuit

Let’s step back for a moment and consider the bigger picture. This reluctance isn’t really about biscuits, mince pies, or tea bags. It’s about what they represent: the quiet tension between self-interest and social harmony. The last of anything becomes a symbolic battleground for our collective need to avoid confrontation and our individual desires.

Take the last tea bag, for instance. You’re standing in the kitchen at work, the box is empty save for one lonely bag, and the decision looms: do you take it and risk leaving your colleagues caffeine-deprived, or do you forgo it and survive on lukewarm water and disappointment? The tea bag isn’t the issue—it’s the fear of seeming inconsiderate, even if the rest of the office secretly brought their own peppermint stash.

Similarly, the last mince pie at Christmas is rarely the most delicious one. It’s usually the slightly dry one no one particularly wants. But taking it feels like an act of finality, as though eating it signals the end of the festivities. Nobody wants to be the Grinch who eats the Christmas cheer.

The Psychology of the Final Item

Why do we care so much about the last of anything? Psychologists might say it’s tied to the concept of scarcity. The fewer resources we perceive to be available, the more value we assign to them. That last biscuit in the tin somehow carries more weight than the first ten we eagerly devoured without a second thought.

But there’s something deeper at play: the unspoken etiquette of shared spaces. We hesitate because we’re afraid to disrupt the balance, to overstep boundaries that no one has articulated but everyone seems to understand. The last biscuit becomes a litmus test for how we view ourselves in relation to others.

Breaking the Biscuit Stalemate

So, how do we solve this? Should we all agree to throw social niceties to the wind and devour the last biscuit with reckless abandon? Perhaps. After all, it’s just a biscuit. But doing so requires a level of boldness most of us aren’t comfortable with, especially when the judgment of our peers (real or imagined) hangs in the air.

One solution is to reframe the situation entirely. If the last biscuit is truly unwanted, why not see taking it as an act of kindness, a way of tidying up the tin and sparing everyone else the awkwardness? The same goes for that final mince pie or tea bag. Think of it not as selfishness, but as social service.

Alternatively, we could normalize clearing the tin entirely. No biscuit left behind, no awkward silences, no existential dilemmas. But this requires a cultural shift that’s unlikely to happen overnight—especially in Britain, where politeness is practically an Olympic sport.

The Last Biscuit as a Metaphor

At its core, the last biscuit represents something larger: our discomfort with finality. Whether it’s the last of the biscuits, the last day of a holiday, or the last moments of a party, endings make us uneasy. We want someone else to take responsibility, to bear the emotional weight of closing the chapter.

But perhaps there’s beauty in this hesitation. It shows we care about the people around us, even if our way of expressing it is wrapped in layers of awkwardness and tea-fuelled guilt. The last biscuit is not just a biscuit—it’s a symbol of our shared humanity, our quirks, and our desire to get along.

Conclusion

The next time you’re faced with a lone digestive or the final sip of coffee, take a moment to reflect. Is it really about the biscuit, or is it about something deeper—our endless quest to balance kindness, etiquette, and self-interest?

And then, take the biscuit. Own it. Enjoy it. You’ve earned it. The world won’t end, and you might just inspire someone else to do the same. Sometimes, all it takes is one brave soul to break the biscuit stalemate.

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Dwight Warner

Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.

With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.

Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

The post Why There’s Always One Biscuit Left (and Why It’s Never About the Biscuit) appeared first on untypicable..

If you’re neurodiverse like me, you probably already know that nothing says “Christmas in Britain” like a workplace Secret Santa. It’s the festive tradition that gives us all an excuse to spend too much on a “small” gift for a colleague who we may or may not have shared more than five words with all year. And if you’re reading this, chances are you’re one of the many people who feels about as comfortable with Secret Santa as a hedgehog in a balloon factory. Fear not—this guide is here to help you navigate the mystery, confusion, and socially obligated merriment of Secret Santa in the UK with your sanity (mostly) intact.

A Traditional British Fiasco: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Imagine this: you’re a bit quirky, enjoy routines, and have no idea why Secret Santa involves actual humans exchanging mysterious parcels in awkward settings rather than magical elves appearing with exactly what you need. So, naturally, the annual Secret Santa announcement feels like being lobbed headfirst into a social maze. For neurodiverse folks, this can all be a bit of a pickle, as we’re expected to understand all the (often unwritten) rules of festive gift-giving without a handy instruction manual.

Why Does Everyone Keep Saying It’s “Fun”?

If you’re neurodiverse, the concept of “fun” may differ wildly from your coworkers’! Secret Santa fun doesn’t often include clear instructions, and you’re left wondering why the “fun” is in wrapping oddly shaped trinkets in three different types of tinsel while pretending you have any idea what Sarah from Accounts likes, wants, or will not take as a personal insult. And, just to add a lovely bit of Christmas spice, you probably have a strict budget for this “gift,” but that budget exists solely as a suggestion. At this point, “fun” has left the chat.

Choosing a Gift (Without Going Stark Raving Bonkers)

Right, here’s where things get tricky. You’re given a name. But that’s it. Who is Darren from Marketing? What do they enjoy? Are they a candle person? Do they have an affinity for novelty socks, or are you about to trigger some horrendous flashback involving ill-fitting knitwear? For the neurodiverse, this is like a game show in which you have to guess a stranger’s favourite snack using nothing but vibes.

Some classics may work, like a nice mug or a box of chocolates, but only if they don’t mind finding themselves in the “Generic Gift from Someone Who Doesn’t Care” category. This leads us to perhaps the most significant Secret Santa dilemma: To personalise, or not to personalise?

Reading Between the Lines: The British Art of Gift Hints

A hidden landmine of British Secret Santa is the mysterious “gift hint.” In a neurotypical world, there’s an expectation to drop hints about what you’d like without actually saying it. We British seem to love this baffling form of non-communication, which is particularly unhelpful for anyone who prefers things to be a tad more direct. For example, you might overhear a teammate saying, “I just love a cheeky gin and tonic,” which you might take as “Ah, a gin lover! Good gift idea.” Except, of course, their “cheeky gin” comment was just polite small talk. What they really want is a subscription to a soap-making kit, but they didn’t say that because that would be too obvious.

The Chaos of Unwrapping and Smiling in Public

The moment you’ve waited for (and dreaded) finally arrives: the big unwrapping. Everyone stands around in the break room, holding their mysterious Secret Santa gifts and wearing forced, slightly terrified smiles. In the neurodiverse world, “performative unwrapping” can be a nightmare. Do you smile? Nod enthusiastically? Or are you supposed to grimace because this gift was supposed to be funny?

Worse still, what if the gift isn’t what you expected? Perhaps you unwrapped what appears to be a tiny garden gnome—an inside joke you missed, because, of course, there is no joke to get! You’ve just been handed a gnome because “the gnome spoke to me,” as your gifter says, nodding meaningfully. It’s a form of madness, and yet here we all are, giving it a go year after year.

Navigating Neurotypical Holiday Banter

There’s a lot of festive chit-chat during Secret Santa, most of which involves deeply British expressions like, “I’m terrible at picking presents!” and “Hope you don’t hate it, haha!” For the neurodiverse, this small talk is as essential as mince pies in the office kitchen but twice as hard to swallow. It’s all part of the Great British workplace Christmas ritual: we moan about the “impossibility” of getting gifts, laugh nervously, and do our best not to insult the person holding the mug we picked out last year. Just try your best and remember that, in the end, this banter is largely meaningless.

Tips and Tricks for the Secret Santa Stressed

By now, you might be thinking, “This Secret Santa business isn’t for me.” But don’t worry; you can get through it with a few helpful pointers:

• Ask for specifics if they’re available. Pretending you know someone’s taste doesn’t end well—trust me.
• Default to something consumable. British office dwellers can’t resist a tin of quality biscuits or a box of decent mince pies. When in doubt, go with treats.
• Keep it low-key funny but safe. If you’re up for a gag gift, stick with harmless British humour—novelty tea towels, mugs with silly slogans, or anything shaped like a biscuit. Leave the truly wacky stuff for the brave.
• Give yourself permission to enjoy the absurdity. Secret Santa is ridiculous. It’s meant to be silly. It’s okay to roll your eyes and have a bit of a chuckle at how odd it all is!

Embrace The Madness (and Maybe Bring Extra Mince Pies)

Navigating Secret Santa as a neurodiverse person in the UK workplace can be a wild ride, full of baffling hints, questionable humour, and mysterious budget restrictions. But with a bit of patience, a dash of humour, and a healthy dose of self-acceptance, you might just survive—and maybe even have a laugh along the way. So go on, grab your gift (and a mince pie), and remember: everyone else is as confused as you are for oncer. And if all else fails, there’s always next year!

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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 How to Survive Secret Santa in the UK When You’re Neurodiverse (and Fancy Keeping Your Sanity) appeared first on untypicable..

For introverts like myself, life in an extrovert-dominated world is an adventure in quiet endurance. When everyone around you seems to be recharged by the same social events that drain you, everyday life can feel like a funny, yet exhausting, contradiction. From sidestepping awkward small talk to the art of stealthy exits, being an introvert comes with its own set of unique (and sometimes downright hilarious) challenges.

The Unending Battle of Small Talk

Picture this: you’re at a social gathering, and a friendly acquaintance heads your way, already radiating energy. The weather? Work updates? What’s new? Cue your internal dialogue scrambling to keep up. “Do I comment on the weather? Or… ask about their cat? Wait, do they even have a cat?”

Small talk for introverts can feel like an Olympic event—it’s draining, requires strategy, and usually leaves you feeling like you need a good nap afterward. And while extroverts seem to glide through the chit-chat, you’re left wondering, “Can I just…nod? Would they notice if I just nodded?”

The Art of the Stealthy Exit

If there’s one skill introverts develop early, it’s the silent exit. Big, boisterous farewells that involve all kinds of hugging and fanfare? Not quite the introvert style. In fact, “ghosting” can feel like a necessary skill.

There’s a certain thrill in successfully making it to the door unnoticed. No long goodbyes, no explaining why you’re leaving early—it’s a covert victory. The irony, of course, is that you’re the only one who sees it that way. Extroverts, on the other hand, might need multiple farewells and goodbyes at the door. As for me? I’ll be home in pyjamas by the time they’re done.

The “Social Hangover” After Every Outing

The social hangover is very real. Extroverts leave a party with energy to spare; introverts leave needing 48 hours of pure, undisturbed solitude. It’s not that introverts don’t enjoy socializing—it’s just that it comes with a price. For every hour spent out and about, at least two hours of downtime are required to recharge.

Your ideal post-party recovery? A cozy blanket, a good book, or a Netflix binge that requires no interaction whatsoever. Bonus points if you don’t have to check your phone.

Phone Calls: The Ultimate Source of Anxiety

For introverts, the words “I’ll call you” might as well mean “I’ll give you a full-blown anxiety attack.” The unpredictability of a phone call—someone’s voice suddenly in your ear, expecting a response, and there’s no way to read body language—can be stressful.

And then there’s the age-old introvert tradition of letting the phone ring out, hoping it goes to voicemail, so you can just…text back. Nothing beats the beauty of a written message, where you can think before you “speak.” Extroverts may never understand the sigh of relief when a call goes unanswered.

Group Activities: The “Why Can’t We Just Hang Out Alone?” Dilemma

Sometimes, you’ll make a new friend who loves group outings, parties, or game nights, and you’ll find yourself smiling awkwardly as they invite you to a “group hang.” You’d probably prefer a quiet coffee date with just the two of you, but no, now you’re at a full-blown gathering with ten strangers talking over each other.

This scenario tends to lead to internal monologues that go something like, “Why didn’t I suggest a one-on-one hangout? Will they notice if I just quietly slip away?” And while extroverts might jump into the chaos, you’ll likely hover at the edges, hoping for a quieter way out.

The Relentless Need for “Alone Time”

One of the hardest things for introverts in an extrovert’s world is explaining the need for alone time. It’s a core part of who you are, but to the untrained eye, it can look like antisocial behaviour. Extroverted friends will say, “Come on, we’ll have a blast!” while you’re thinking, “Yes, but also… no.”

Your friends might not understand it, but alone time is sacred. It’s the quiet retreat after an exhausting day, where the only voices you hear are your own (and possibly the ones in a good book or podcast).

Networking Events: A Special Kind of Torture

Nothing brings out the introvert sweat quite like networking events. Picture it: a crowded room filled with unfamiliar faces, all intent on making “connections.” For an introvert, this scene is the stuff of nightmares. The idea of walking up to strangers and starting conversations that “build rapport”? Yikes.

Extroverts often see networking as an adventure, a place to collect new contacts like trading cards. Introverts, on the other hand, are secretly praying for a fire alarm or some equally valid excuse to cut the event short.

The Creeping Death

Whether it is in the office, or as part of some social or community group, that bit when you all meet up and it goes round the table with everyone telling you about what they have been doing, what they are going to be doing, and generally updating everyone, the slow creep of death approaches. Trying to make yourself sound like you have been as busy as everyone else has been, scrambling to find something new to say when you have been happy doing the same-old same-old.

The creeping death creeps ever closer, and the panic rises…

The Difficulty of Saying “No”

Introverts aren’t exactly known for their love of confrontation, so declining invitations can be challenging. Extroverted friends, ever eager, will assume you want to join every plan, every time. But introverts are quite skilled in the subtle art of dodging without explicitly declining.

You might find yourself saying, “I’ll see if I can make it,” knowing full well you’ll spend that evening curled up at home. And even though there’s often a pang of guilt, you know that taking time for yourself is what you need. Plus, your real friends will understand.

The Struggle to Avoid Eye Contact

You know that feeling when you’re walking down the street, see someone you know from a distance, and instantly start calculating how to avoid interaction? Introverts have mastered the art of “not noticing” people. It’s not out of a lack of affection; it’s a survival mechanism.

Eye contact with someone you know (or someone who might start a conversation) often triggers the instinct to look busy. Maybe you’ll fake a text, pretend you’re in a hurry, or take a sudden interest in nearby architecture. Anything to avoid the dreaded small talk.

The Dilemma of “Extrovert Friends”

Being friends with an extrovert is like having a personal event planner who refuses to take “no” for an answer. They’re wonderful and loyal but also relentless in their quest to “bring you out of your shell.” They’ll schedule outings, parties, and adventures without hesitation, and for them, the best part is dragging you along.

You’ll appreciate their enthusiasm, but also wonder if there’s a way to support them without joining every event. Maybe send a fruit basket to the party in your place?

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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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