**Diary Entry**

There was a bloke in our office. Well, not just any bloke—a grown man, 36 years old. But he was… different.

To put it plainly, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Not even close. But I hired him six years ago, and I never once regretted it. The oddest part? He *knew* he wasn’t clever—never pretended otherwise. In fact, the first thing he said when he walked in for the interview was:

*”Hello! I’m not very bright, and I won’t pretend to be. But I need this job—my mum’s poorly, can’t work anymore, and I’ve got to pay for her medicine.”*

That threw me, I won’t lie. But it was clear he wasn’t spinning a tale—he was genuine. And though he wasn’t cut out for anything complicated, he reminded me of Dustin Hoffman’s character in *Rain Man*, one of my favourite films. I understood right away, and I didn’t want to belittle him.

*”You’re smarter than half the lot out there covering up their idiocy with nonsense. Alright, start tomorrow.”*

And just like that, he became part of the team. Six years he worked with us—different, yes, but honest, reliable, never late. In my book, the best we had. He even got his mum back on her feet after her stroke—though I chipped in with some meds and physio. Never once complained, not a word. The whole office adored him, treated him like family. So much so, we plumped him up from 75 kilos to a solid 100! Blimey, the lad even started looking like me!

Right, getting sidetracked. Two days ago, after being out of the office for a while, my assistant hit me with it straight:

*”Henry’s quitting! You’ve got to talk him out of it—what are we supposed to do without him?”*

I was bloody floored. *Quitting?* Where? Why? Called him into my office straightaway. Ten minutes later, he shuffles in, chin practically on his chest, avoiding eye contact.

*”Henry, what’s going on? Something wrong? Someone giving you grief? Point me to them, I’ll sack half this place!”*

*”No, no—nothing like that. I love everyone here. It’s just… well… I… um…”*

*”Spit it out, mate. Your mum alright?”*

*”She’s fine, thanks. It’s just… I’m getting married.”*

Cue me freezing like a glitchy iPhone. My first thought? *How’s that work, then?* But who was I to question it? He’s just like the rest of us—human. Still, it gave me pause.

*”Fair enough—assuming the lady in question’s on board, yeah? She real?”*

*”Oh, yes! She’s been asking me to move to Sweden with her—me and Mum. She loves us both!”*

Right. Alarm bells started ringing. Taking a man like him—autistic, vulnerable—to *Sweden*? With his mum? Sounded dodgy as hell.

*”Must be a good woman if she’s willing to take your mum too.”*

*”She’s beautiful—ginger, cleverer than me! Here, look.”*

Then he whips out an iPhone 7. Blimey. All these years, he’d clung to that ancient flip phone—no matter how many times we tried to upgrade him. We’d even gifted him a Samsung, and I gave him my old Sony when I got a new one. But no, he wouldn’t budge. Until now. *An iPhone 7?*

*”Caroline gave it to me—loaded it with photos so I wouldn’t miss her.”*

By then, my head was spinning with worst-case scenarios. I braced myself for some sun-bleached, bleach-blonde pin-up from an old mag. But what I saw stunned me.

A ginger woman—sweet-faced, unmistakably Down’s syndrome. I’ve always called them “sunshine people.”

They never chose that extra chromosome, did they? But in every other way, they’re just like us—better, even. Kinder. And they *smile*—real smiles, not the plastered-on rubbish most people wear while cursing you under their breath.

*”She’s lovely, mate. You’re a lucky man. If it’s what you want, I’ll sign you off—reluctantly as your boss, but gladly as your friend. Mind if I ring your mum, sort the details? I’ll book your flights.”*

Henry was always cheerful, but the joy on his face then? Never seen anything like it. Worth sending him to Timbuktu for, that look. He clapped like a kid, dialled his mum, and handed me the phone. And here’s the thing—why I think autistic folks are leagues ahead of the rest of us. He *left*. Knew the chat was about him, but gave me space. How many “normal” people would do that? None. They’d hover, ears flapping.

Special lot, these people. Clever. Tactful.

And why *shouldn’t* they be happy? Honestly, they’re probably *happier* in love than most—no lies, no shouting, just pure loyalty.

So who’s really the clever one here? Think the answer’s obvious.

Spoke to his mum later—turns out she knows Caroline well, no red flags. And this morning at 8, I drove them to Heathrow. Their flight to Stockholm leaves at 11:25. They’ll be happy together, and I’ll be happy for them. Come March, if all goes well, I’ll fly out myself—give away my best, sunniest employee at his wedding.

People like him? You’d move heaven and earth to make their lives better. Meanwhile, the ones who mistake kindness for weakness—they fade into nothing. But the good ones? There’s more of them. Only reason this rotten planet’s still spinning.

Better brew a vat of coffee—can’t nod off and miss that flight.