I spend a fair amount of time with my children’s school helping out when I can. I was recently asked to talk to my son’s class as part of a “bring your parent in so the little brats darlings can grill them” exercise.
“What job do you do?” was one of several eager questions thrown at me to which I foolishly replied “I write for a living.” Immediately, there were moans and groans, the spotty oik with the earring exclaimed “BORING!” and Ms F, the young school teacher with the ink not quite dry on her PGCE, suddenly took a closer interest in me which was not a bad thing.
My son looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him having fed his school chums on stories of Dad jumping out of planes, landing in a greenhouse in Holland and shooting a monkey with a grenade launcher while liberating the Falklands single handed. Right now I was blowing these myths out of the water and ruining his promo work by telling his mates I was something really boring like a “writer”?
“Better think of something quick sunshine,” I thought to myself, “the natives are distinctly restless!”
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