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Cyhoeddwyd yn 'Untold Stories: Life on (and off) the Autistic Spectrum' gan Helen Hughes. Yn anffodus, nid yw'r awdur bellach yn cadw'r hawliau ar gyfer y stori fer hon, ond gallwch ddarllen darn byr isod:

VIEJO GRUNON was sitting on his usual bench by the sea in his home city of Salou, as he always did in the evenings. The old man sat in his shorts with his legs crossed, one sandal-bearing foot swaying from side to side to the tune playing in his head. His hands were clasped together and resting on his belly, thumbs twiddling, skin dark and leathered by years of basking in the sun. He looked out at the horizon thoughtfully, thanking God for all the wonderful years and pondering what the new millennium would bring… THUMP!

His peaceful moment was interrupted when something heavy landed on his head. The shock made the impact seem worse somehow, almost painful. He felt the frightening force clasp tighter around his favourite wicker hat then lift up into the air, revealing his balding scalp. Viejo covered his head and wailed; “¿Qué haces, estúpido turista inglés?!”

Looking up, he saw a young boy, younger than ten, pale and white with too much sunblock on his face. He was just standing there, holding his hat up in the air and admiring it from different angles, humming happily to himself.

Viejo hesitated. There was something ‘wrong’ with this boy…

“Sorry!” the boy’s father ran over to them and handed him back his crumpled hat.

“¡Mira el estado de mi sombrero!” Viejo ranted and raved, infuriated by the state of his hat.

“Sorry! Yhm… ‘autistico’! Autistico!” the boy’s father tried to explain in a thick, northern Welsh accent. Then he took his son by the hand and led him away.

“¡Maldito inglés!”



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