You could have written my autobiography from this. When I was in Year Two, my first teacher called my mother up to school and told her that I was having troubles with handwriting, art and sport and suggested that I be assessed. We saw a neurologist who told my mother that I had muscular dystrophy and wouldn't live to be 12. Considering the fact that I'll be 50 in January, he was wrong!

My mother was very old school and got me into Cubs, which I loathed, and I have many painful memories of that time, such as one night when we were skipping with two ropes, and I couldn't get it right and one of the leaders, a man with dark hair and a beard, whose son was also a Cub, was twirling the rope and would hit me in the head with it. He didn't stop and ask if I was okay, even though I nearly fell over. One night, a senior boy called Dale, glared at me and said, "No one likes you." I remember the night I left only a few people came up to wish me luck.

I was bullied viciously at school, too. I developed PTSD, and was identified as autistic when I was 35.