Authorised by whom? East Derwent Highway, Geilston Bay. October 2010
Like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park, my children's brains are evolving. And like that movie, it is dangerous and terrifying.
Take - for instance - the discussion that I had with Henry the other evening. After reports from the Oberaufseherin about rude and unruly behaviour for the second straight day, I assumed my fatherly voice (i.e. drop a couple of octaves and talk slowly) and queried the lad.
After confirming that yes, Henry had stretched the bonds of maternal love that day, I expressed my bitter disappointment in the lad, as he had "promised to be a good boy" that morning.
"Oh no," interjected the (not very-) guilty party, "you're wrong daddy!"
A rueful shake of the head on my part, and a tired, "In what way am I wrong Henry?"
"I only promised to try and be a good boy."
What could I do? He was correct. I didn't expect such semantics at age four.
Have a poem.
For a War Memorial, by G. K. Chesterton
(SUGGESTED INSCRIPTION PROBABLY NOT SUGGESTED BY THE COMMITTEE)
The hucksters haggle in the mart
The cars and carts go by;
Senates and schools go droning on;
For dead things cannot die.
A storm stooped on the place of tombs
With bolts to blast and rive;
But these be names of many men
The lightning found alive.
If usurers rule and rights decay
And visions view once more
Great Carthage like a golden shell
Gape hollow on the shore,
Still to the last of crumbling time
Upon this stone be read
How many men of England died
To prove they were not dead.