20 April 2011


So apparently yes, the way to encourage a child is not to tell them they're awesome when they've done something that is in all demonstrable ways absolutely shite, it's to praise them for working hard. Assuming they've worked hard.

Instead of, "fuck my life you're a child prodigy son" when little Billy manages to accomplish something, it is better to simply acknowledge his hard work and remind him that this is indeed the key to happiness in life. Hard graft son. Obviously in reality it's every man for himself and we're all doomed, but they don't need to know that yet.

So anyway yes, this pleases me as I feel it vindicates me for insulting young Peter's painting of his family when I was a fifth year in comp and was helping out at a local Primary school on Wednesday afternoons either as part of my GCSEs or cause I'd been in trouble for something, I forget which.

I mention this because while I was at the Subway place earlier this evening there was an old woman making gargling noises at a woman's urchin which was sat in something more akin to an armoured vehicle than a buggy, certainly more robust than anything the British Army have been given to fight the Taliban with. It was an eight wheeler!

The urchins Mother was all smiles. The kid remained and appeared indifferent at best, scared at worst as this wrinkly old crone talked to it like it was a Cocker Spaniel; Oooohhs a good boy, you're a good boy coochy fucking coo.

You see now, the thing is I can't communicate with children in this patronising nonsense way. I've always wondered if this was because I was dead inside or because I just didn't want to condescend to them or anyone in this way.

I don't get the point. I understand the tone of voice is important, but why not still make sense and use actual words just in a pleasant tone of voice instead of just making noises. It's no wonder babies don't make any sense.

So back to young Peter. He's painted his family; his mum, his Dad, his brother and himself. I thought it was shit even for a six year old, he hadn't tried at all...but I thought I was diplomatic when he showed me and asked me what I thought.

You're Dad Pete, he's got nine fingers has he on his left hand? And only three on his right? And your mum, her legs are always this far apart are they? Peter just stared at me, as did his Guardian reading hummus eating sandal wearer of a teacher who was so translucent from a lack of red meat I could see through his chest and read the blackboard behind him which he had renamed the chalkboard so as not to offend the black children....of which there were none in the entire school. I wasn't invited back.

I maintain however, that if Peter is making his living today from portrait painting then he owes his living to me. If I hadn't been honest and pointed out to him that people don't have 12 fingers and certainly not nine on one hand, and that includes people from Bampton, he'd have given up painting before he had time to realise his full potential.

The point is this. I was questioning whether Peter had really thought his work through. Had he given is all? Or indeed, had he just thrown some paint about and given no consideration to how it looked or how deformed and hideous a representation of his family he was ready and willing to offer to his whole classroom?

I saved this child. Ergo I have saved the world. For our children are our future.

I am God.

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