The Paternal Optimist

A Job Well Done

And so, the BW's efforts to spend his entire inheritance before he reaches his teens continue unabated : a swift totting up of the grades in his End Of Year Report results in the startling realisation that the PO owes him twelve CDs. And that's on top of the five he's already owed from his Half Term Report.

But first things first.

Last week, regular readers will no doubt remember, was exam week. Never before has the BW had to endure such a prolonged period of scrutiny. Nine separate exams, for each of which he had prepared with feverish intensity, spending every spare moment during his weekday evenings, entire weekends and the best part of his half term break buried in textbooks, copying and recopying notes, or wandering about the house repeating to himself over and over what he had learned : dates, irregular verbs, formulae, names of kings and queens, latitudes and longi- ...

Erm, actually, that's not entirely true.

As we know, he did do some revision, encouraged by the Mother Superior's bribery sponsorship scheme. However, the BW has once again proved that on those slim young shoulders sits a mightily old head, for his exam results show quite unambiguously that his efforts were concentrated on certain subjects - to the inevitable detriment of others.

How else are we to explain the following distribution ?

• The BW scored over 90% in three subjects - two of the key academic subjects, Maths and French  (in which he came top), and Music (a smart move, since he is the proud holder of a Music scholarship)
• He scored over 80% in a further three subjects - the three remaining key academic subjects, in fact : Latin (in which he was only one mark away from another 90%), English and Science (in which he also came top)
• He scored over 70% in History, which is almost a proper subject, and RS, which, er, isn't
• Finally, in Geography, he scored a rather disappointing -... No, on second thoughts, I shan't embarrass him. Suffice it to say that the BW would not appear to know his Aarhus from his Elbe.

It would have been surprising indeed had the end of year grades awarded by the Dedicated Professionals at Hogwarts failed to reflect the success enjoyed by the BW in his exams. Nevertheless, even the almost praeternaturally modest BW himself could barely hide his excitement when he reported them to me. At the risk of making him blush, here they are :

Art 2B               
DT 2A                  
Drama 2A                        
English 1A
French 1A
Geography 2B
History 2B
  ICT 2B
  Latin 2A
 Maths 1A
Music 1A
PE 3C
RS 2B
Science ??*

* The DP i/c Science had yet to pronounce his verdict when the PO and BW last spoke, though given that he had come top in the exam, the BW was understandably confident he would receive a grade of 2B or above.

Only the PE DP, it would seem, was determined to poop the party - despite the BW's outstanding performances in athletics and cross-country. Fortunately for the DP in question, the PO and the BW are not the sorts to bear grudges.

All that remains, then, is for the BW to get his thinking cap on and to come up with a list of the eight CDs he wants, and to post them here. And if you're wondering how it is that the number has already fallen in the time it has taken for you to read this post from seventeen to eight, let's just say that in spite of his cherubic looks, the BW is already a seasoned negotiator, and that he has already managed to talk his father into paying up some of his reward in hard cash...

PS A word too of congratulation to Young Mr Hoskins, who, not content with being the only person on this site referred to by anything vaguely resembling his real name (only the Hoskins bit is invented), now has something else to crow about : apparently, he has been awarded something called the Ducks Prize (or something similar) in recognition of his eggstraordinary all-round performance and his quacking work throughout the year.

The PO's Midsummer Night's Dream

OK, so it's a week or so early. But I think it still bears recounting...

Part I

The PO is lounging on a luxurious sofa in a living-room with French windows that open out onto a large garden. Suddenly the BW appears before him, clutching a shiny red leather cricket ball.

"Do you want to come out and see my bowling, Dad ?"

"Sure."

The PO follows the BW out into the garden, where, to his surprise, he finds his old university friend, the Yorkie, standing, padded up, in front of a makeshift wicket.

"Ey oop, lad. Ow yer doin' ?" the Yorkie asks jovially.

"You go to mid-off, Dad," says the BW authoritatively.

Almost before the PO has taken up his appointed position, the BW begins to run up to bowl. The rest happens so fast it takes the PO two or three seconds to work out what exactly has taken place :

The BW bowls.
It is a full-pitched ball.
The Yorkie leans forward confidently and drives the ball straight, like a rocket.
A streak of red flashes through the air, then ends, suddenly.
Like a character in a sit com, the PO looks at the Yorkie, still holding an immaculate follow-through, then turns slowly, his gaze following the recent trajectory of the ball, until his eyes finally rest on the BW.
The BW is proudly clutching the ball in his right hand.

Upon realising what has happened, the Yorkie tucks his bat under his arm and stomps off to the corner of the garden, where he climbs the giant oak tree that stands there until he reaches a massive bough some fifteen feet from the ground. He shuffles along on his bottom to the middle of the branch, then stops and glowers at the BW.

Interlude

The PO wakes up, reaches for the bottle of water by his bedside, finds it is empty, glances at the alarm clock, sees that it is just before five in the morning, groans, gets up, pads through to the kitchen, takes another bottle of water from the fridge (while managing to keep his eyes almost entirely closed to the glare of the fridge light), pads back to the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, opens the bottle, swigs about a third of its contents down, puts the bottle on the floor by the bed, and snuggles once more under the duvet cover, to sleep, perchance to dream...

Part II

"Hallo, mate."

It is another of the PO's friends from university, Hartley Hare. Like the Yorkie, he  is immaculately dressed in whites and wearing batting pads.

"Come on then, matey," he says to the BW. "Show me your best."

He walks down to the wicket, marks his guard with a series of exaggerated gestures, then raises a flat hand to his brow and surveys the field. Seeing only the PO standing casually at mid-off, he appears to be satisfied. He takes guard, the epitome of dapperness.

The BW runs up and bowls.
This time the ball is just short of a length just outside off stump.
Hartley Hare leans back and shapes to drive it on the up through the offside, but to his surprise, instead of continuing to drift away from him, the ball nips back sharply and keeps low.
The top of off is knocked back, leaving the stump at a 45 degree angle.

Hartley Hare yells a profanity not heard since the day his Ted Baker trousers were flown from a Hampshire flagpole. Then he throws his bat down and stomps off in the direction of the oak tree, in which the Yorkie is still sitting, and still glowering.

"There'd better be room up there for two," he shouts up to the Yorkie, before beginning to climb.

Postscript

The PO, clearly realising that it is best to quit while you're ahead, wakes up. He smiles.

"I must remember to blog that tonight," he thinks, before turning over and drifting back into a soft, dreamless sleep.

The BW's Steps To Parnassus

The Paternal Optimist would be the first to agree that overweening pride is amongst the ugliest of faults, but there are moments when a father's heart can but swell...

During one of our regular telephone conversations this evening, the Boy Wonder :

• spoke French - he is preparing for his aural/oral exam later this week (Good luck, BW !);
• explained with earnest disaproval how other boys in a recent net practice constantly hit the ball out of the net - "which is all right at our age, when most fielders can't catch - but they'll have to learn to hit it along the ground sooner or later" - before going on to describe his own efforts to add a little judicious attacking flair to his predominantly defensive repertoire of strokes;
• put the phone down for a couple of minutes so that I could listen to him playing Debussy's Dr Gradus ad Parnassum - a piece I love, but do not have the technique to play myself - with a few faults, admittedly (he's still working on it), but at a fair old lick - faster, certainly than this comparatively gentle rendition.

With a bit of luck, this weekend nous aurons l'occasion de papoter encore un peu ensemble, I will get to admire his forward defensive first hand, and I may even get the opportunity to add to the archive of historical BW recordings, and thereby give you the chance to judge for yourselves whose performance is the more engaging...

Incidentally, I wonder whether the choice of the BW's piano-teacher of that particular piece by Debussy was mere coincidence or a subtle private joke : Dr Gradus ad Parnassum - of which, by the way, there apparently exists a recording based on a piano roll of the composer himself playing (he rattles through it in 1 minute 51 seconds) - was intended by Debussy as a parody of a child attempting to play a piece by Clementi...

Fleet Of Foot And Sharp Of Mind

The Boy Wonder continues to make his father very proud - and I don't mean just because he's been doing three hours of revision every day during Half Term, admittedly spurred on by the Mother Superior's ingenious sponsorship scheme...

First, news of his contribution to Sports' Day, which took place last weekend. Despite a classic BW mix-up over race times - he told the MS that his first race wasn't until mid-morning, so she filled him up with tea and toast, only to discover on their arrival at 8h25 that he was due to run the 800 metres at 8h30 - he performed outstandingly, succeeding where Coe and Ovett failed, and carrying off the prestigious 800 metres/1500 metres double. They'll be calling him Dame Kelly next !

First and second-years ran in the same race, and though he was beaten by three of the four second-years in the 800 (he finished 0.01 seconds behind the third) he beat all his fellow  first-years, despite the tea and toast rolling around in his stomach.

The story was similar in the 1500, where he was the first runner in his year to cross the line, behind all four second-years, though only four seconds behind the overall winner.

And while the news on the sporting front is good, that on the academic side is no less impressive. Here's a quick summary of the phone conversation we had last night :

BW : Hi, Dad. Do you want to hear the grades from my Half-Term Report ?

PO : Why yes, son, I surely do.

BW : OK. Maths 1A. French 2B. Latin 1B. Science 2B. English 2B. Music 2B. RS 2B. DT 2A. Geography 2B. History 2B. Drama 2A. ICT 3C. PE 3C. And there's one more I've forgotten.

PO : That would be Art, son.

BW : Oh yes. 2B.

PO : So you got 12 grades of 2B and above and two below ? How many CDs does that mean I owe you, son ?

BW : Oh, are we doing that for Half-Term Reports too ?

PO : We most certainly are, son, though why don't we say that we'll divide the number by two at half-terms ?

BW : Sounds fair to me. Let's see : x equals (twelve minus two) divided by two. That would be five CDs, then.

PO : Yes, it would be, son. Better get thinking about what you want. You can post the list on the PO site, if you like.

Fleet of foot, sharp of mind, and scrupulously fair. What father could not be proud of such a son ?

Three Lonely Men

Spare a thought for...

...the Surfer Dude, abandoned by his beloved just weeks before their wedding, off gallivanting in sunny Spain, leaving him to spend his evenings after a hard day's work strumming morosely and mumbling half-heartedly the lyrics to old Carpenters' ballads he never really liked anyway, but which he somehow can't stop playing, because they remind him of her...

...the Recluse, abandoned by the Principal, off gallivanting in Spain with Missy (no doubt tanking up on Sangria and belting out Una Paloma Bianca every evening as they conga round the pool), leaving him to spend his days studying irregular Spanish verbs (oh, the terrible irony of it !) and his evenings drowning his sorrows with a glass bottle of Rioja and battling alone to complete the Times crossword...

...the Boy Wonder, abandoned by his dearest Button, off making merry musick somewhere, leaving her brother to spend a week with only little Schmoo for company, watching endless Star Wars DVDs and doing "boys' stuff" together, far from the civilising influence of their sister...

Chins up, lads. They'll be back soon...