Sedimentary

The other day I took my younger son to Birling Gap where, at low tide, a rather dull, pebbly beach becomes an enchanted world of rockpools populated by crabs, anemones and fragile, transparent fish that dart into cracks the moment they sense danger. My son seemed disappointingly indifferent to the wonders of marine life, but later told someone that he was so happy he wanted to cry. Children are strange creatures.

What a contrast to his older brother, who is virtually imprisoned by an OCD that won't allow him to venture beyond the front door. It has taken me a while to realise how much my son's condition has changed our lives. Unlike an accident or conventional disease, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder can assimilate itself so insidiously into the sufferer's world that even their family can't always recognise the huge tectonic shift that has taken place.

Why does one child possess the capacity for happiness whilst another is wretched? In my sons' case, the glib answer would be that the world is a much happier place when you're six than it is at 12, but I don't think that's the answer. Even at six, my oldest son was a troubled soul.

On the beach, I looked up at the cliffs and marvelled at the fact that they were made up of the skeletons of countless billions of marine creatures. On the clifftop, tiny figures walked along a thin, grassy topsoil, probably unaware that the solidity of the landscape was the result of so many forgotten, insignificant, prehistoric lives.

I looked at my son. What would he remember of this day, if anything? But did it even matter? Perhaps the sum total of who we are is like sedimentary rock, largely comprised of invisible, forgotten events that have helped to silently create solid foundations.

But I'd done all of these things - the rockpools, the forest walks, the zoo and the museums - with my oldest son, and they hadn't created a bedrock of security. If I could go back, what would I change? I can't think of an answer.

In many ways life has become very challenging. I have had to give up a secure job for the uncertainty of sporadic, freelance work. My wife and I now pass like ships in the night, taking it in turns to spend time with our oldest son. We aren't the house of spontaneity.

However, I feel quietly hopeful. The OCD has been very powerful, but it is no match for a neighbour's Border Collie that appeared one day on the doorstep, demanding to be taken for a walk. After witnessing several professional strategies fail, it was a surprise to see a dog have such a huge impact, but in many ways it made perfect sense. The front door has been breached.

The next phase will involve territorial expansion: a street corner today, the postbox tomorrow and the end of the road by Friday. But the dog may have its own ideas, guided by unknown smells and hidden memories. My son will follow the dog.

I've no idea what will happen next, but I'm now resigned to a life of living in a house that smells of dog, out in all weathers so that an incontinent canine can relieve itself.

I can't wait.

The Horror

This afternoon, my oldest son and I caught a taxi to Ditchling Beacon and walked home along the South Downs Way. My son didn't want to go, but he is still young enough to be manipulated by false promises and cheap incentives. Once he was up on the Downs, the grunting and shoulder shrugging were replaced with animated conversations about serial killers and horror films.

It was a beautiful day, but halfway between the summer and winter solstices, the light had a muted quality, as if the sun itself was failing.

Frustratingly, rather than feeling overwhelmed by the beauty of the landscape, my mind played through a tracklist of annoying music: the theme tune of Lazy Town, a Sousa march, something by the Black-Eyed Peas, If You're Happy and You Know Clap Your Hands (my one gesture of defiance at primary school was to hold my hands wide apart during this song).

Then I started wondering if I hadn't made a terrible mistake when I handed my notice in. Every other news story last week seemed to be about the imminent collapse of the Western economy. Was this a good time to be leaving paid employment and setting up a business? Was I even setting up a business, or was I just quitting my job and pretending that I wasn't unemployed?

A man on a hang-glider hovered 50 feet above us, gently rising with the thermals. It was so quiet and the air so still that he must have heard my son's voice:

"Dad, ask me about any serial killer and I bet I'll have heard of them. Do you know about Leatherface? Do know what he did?"

Three weeks ago he knew nothing about Leatherface, but now that my son has started at secondary school he's suddenly a man of the world, determined to earn respect from his peers with his encyclopaedic knowledge of horror films that he has never actually seen. I hope.

The walk from Ditchling Beacon is perfect: only six miles and downhill all the way, with glorious views of the Weald on one side and the coast on the other. It is mostly open countryside, following ancient paths that enabled people to avoid the dense forests of the lowlands. Sadly, wooded areas like 'Black Cap' are a rarity now:

Further on, Lewes appeared in the distance, so far away that like an astronaut on the moon, I could blot it out with one hand. I liked the fact that it was so finite. I had grown up in suburban London, where one town simply merged into another, sometimes worse than the previous mile, sometimes better.

A young girl galloped past on a colt and I felt a vicarious rush of pleasure. My son turned to me:

"Dad, can we watch The Ring? Not the original version - that's an 18, but the American one, because that's only 15. Don't ask Mum, she'll say no. Can we? Several of my friends at school have seen it."

He reeled off a list of names that sounded like characters from Blake's Seven. Why aren't children just called John and Mary any more? I blame Dynasty and Home and Away.

As we reached the outskirts of Lewes, I realised how many things had changed in the last year. We'd had an awful time, but it hadn't lasted. Seeing my mother, blissfully happy in her new home and my son, confidently ambling home with his new friends at a school I never thought we'd get him to, I felt relief more than joy; like someone who has survived a storm at sea.

We turned the corner into our road and I told my son that he'd just walked six miles, rather than the three I'd led him to believe. "You didn't get even slightly tired. You should be proud of yourself."

He turned to me. "Dad, when we get home, will you watch Creep with me?"