Читать книгу The Perils of the Pushy Parents: A Cautionary Tale - Boris Johnson - Страница 4

II

The source, my friends, of half life’s trouble

Is seeking reputation’s bubble,

And though the kids were not ambitious –

Their beds were soft, their food delicious –

Their lives were not entirely cushy:

Their parents were so very pushy.

When they looked on Jim and Molly

(I say this with some melancholy)

They missed the pair of happy moochers

And saw a brace of ‘brilliant futures’.

Let’s take the father. What a freak!

His balding brow and lean physique

Concealed a terrifying zest

For putting children to the test.

When they were babies in the womb

He’d read them Berkeley, Locke and Hume.

Before their eyes were even open

He’d hum them bits of Bach and Chopin,

And not content, this massive swot,

Would teach them physics in the cot

And swipe away their infant bottle

And fill their hands with Aristotle.

When normal kids are doing well

To stick a bit of pasta shell

On card, or play with coloured blocks

He taught them Zeno’s paradox!

Every year it grew intenser:

At five he put them down for Mensa.

At six he made them, lass and lad,

Contest a maths Olympiad

Which venture meeting mixed success

He’d wake them up with cries of ‘Chess!’

When most of us are feeling weak.

Then after half an hour of Greek

He’d keep them in the chairs they sat in,

Switch their books and yell out, ‘Latin!’

Something told him they would star

In ballet or in opera,

So with the zeal of ancient Sparta

He drilled them for La Traviata.

He’d make them play the violin

Then tell them with a sickly grin,

Containing just a hint of menace,

‘February’s great for tennis.

Come and meet your tennis teacher.

Come on, kids, say pleased to meet ya!’

Poor Jim and Molly did their best,

And yet they knew the vital test

For dad, more vital than a course

In how to serve or ride a horse,

Was quenching his hormonal need

To watch his little children READ.

The surest way of pleasing him

Was sitting like two cherubim

In silence and for simply ages

Rustling slowly through the pages.

Until he’d spot them, stop, and look,

And gasp, ‘My word – they’ve got a book!’

He’d hide behind the door to spy.

A tear would glisten in each eye.

He’d hug himself. He’d cut a caper:

‘They’re reading printed words on paper!’

So how do you think his children could