No Class

“Can I go and stay at Janet’s house tonight, mum?”

“No.”

“But Janet’s mum said it would be OK and me and Janet have a project to do for biology and…”

“I’ve told you once.”

“Awww! But she’s my bezzie mate!”

“She’s your best friend. ‘Bezzie mate’ is what the educationally subnormal say.”

“But I am educationally subnormal!”

“No you’re not. You have all the genetic enhancements available for superior cognitive development. You are a super-genius. It cost your father and I a pretty penny to get you these advantages, young lady, so stop being so silly.”

“You’re a horrible poo-monster.”

“Now, Anna, I understand that one of the side effects of supra-intelligent children is the amount of extra emotional input they require from their parents. But you are pushing the boundaries of attention-seeking too far, young lady. So don’t swear at me again, OK?”

“You’re horrible, I hate you!”

“It’s not nice to talk like that to your own mother. I do, however, understand. In time you will grow out of these infantile mood-swings and employ a more reasoned method of argumentation. In the meantime, please refrain from throwing a tantrum if at all possible. I’m really busy today and can’t spare the time. Go into the conservatory and listen to your Mozart. You love Mozart, don’t you, Anna?”

“No! I’m going to listen to the GFXH chart! Really, really loud!”

“Don’t you dare listen to those vulgar, socially indeterminate slouchers!”

“No Fair! You don’t know what they’re like!”

“I’m sorry, Anna. I was a little unfair to those nice pop stars wasn’t I? I’m sure a lot of them are from perfectly good homes and just as enhanced as we are. It’s just that they pretend to be so… common. I get your rebellion against authority, I really do. But it’s just a phase that all one-year olds go through. Sorry, Anna, but there will be no pop music in this house.”

“Puh! Going sleepy-byes now.”

“Of course, sweetie. Don’t forget to plug yourself in.”

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About floppybootstomp

Lecturer, teacher, writer and traveller all perfectly good nouns aren't they? Do they have anything to do with me? Ask the taxman.

Posted on November 6, 2009, in Fiction and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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