I don’t have any children (mostly, as my Mother is quick to point out, because no-one will breed with me), but I consider myself an expert on them. Well, perhaps not an ‘expert’, but certainly better than most actual parents. Let me explain.
I was on the bus. It was not a particularly long journey, but soon felt as though I was in a vehicle designed exclusively by Chris Rhea*.
‘Daddy,’ The little girl in front of me whined. ‘Why can’t we have ice-cream for dinner every night?’ ‘Oh,’ Her Father replied, chuckling. ‘Well, why do you think we can’t?’ ‘But I love ice-cream,’ The little girl replied. Her Father laughed, dotingly. Her Father is an idiot. All the little girl did, without pause (but to the continuous soundtrack of her Father’s proud laughter), was ask asinine questions. Now, everyone should ask questions. I’m not blaming the little girl in the slightest, who I began to see as a modern-day Matilda, trapped with her developmentally challenged Father.
Here were her questions. Please imagine them being spoken in ascending volume:
1. Why can’t we have ice-cream for dinner every night?
2. Why are we on a bus?
3. Why do I have to go to school every day?
Here are her Father’s answers:
1. Doting chuckle
2. Doting chuckle
3. Doting chuckle
Here are the answers I was frantically close to giving her:
1. Because you drip it everywhere whenever we let you have some. Also, have you seen the price of Ben and Jerrys? Do you not want to go to university?
2. Because you walk so infuriatingly slowly it is an occupational hazard to all other pavement users.
3. If I had to look after you all day everyday, I would surely kill you. Go to school, it’s for your own good.
Like I said, a child rearing expert.
*Artist, The road to Hell*