I'm
the Daddy
By
Dominic Horton
On
Friday my dear son Kenteke invited me to his primary school for an
event to celebrate Fathers' Day. I gladly accepted the invitation but
I didn't know what the event consisted of and I didn't ask as usually
the children put on a pleasant little show in the hall, lasting for
half an hour or so, where they perform spoken word and sing songs.
But when I turned up to the school, together with the dozen or so
other dads in attendance, I was ushered up the stairs to the older
children's classrooms. I entered classroom 6, Kenteke's class, but
all of the others behind me piled into classroom 5, leaving me as the
only father in Kenteke's class who had bothered to show up. So I sat
there conspicuously, like a Western missionary in a pygmy settlement.
 |
| Steve McQueen in solitary confinement in Papillon. |
The
teacher addressed the class and informed us that we were going to do
some painting, which was not the news that I wanted to hear as my
artistic talent is minuscule to say the least; even if I
attempt to draw stick men they look so hideous that they
complain. The kids seemed a bit non-plussed too, I suppose making a
mess with paint is exciting for five year olds but by the time
children reach ten it is a bit old hat to them. After a few minutes a
pupil's grandfather turned up to give me a bit of moral support but
he made it clear he was having none of the painting lark before
departing the scene as quickly as he had entered. If only I had such
audacity.
The
uncomfortable feeling that I had worsened when I turned around only
to find the whole of the Tory cabinet staring down at me. There was a
display of the Conservative party top brass on a cork board with
photographs and pen pictures of each cabinet member. Directly
adjacent to me I could see the loathsome features of Oliver Letwin
and I kept catching his picture out of the corner of my eye, which
made me progressively irascible as the morning wore on.
Letwin
was predictably educated in the private schools of Hall
School in Hampstead and Eton and Cambridge University, so he was
never destined to be stuck for high brow employment. Being a job
seeker myself I took heart from a sign on the wall that read, “no
one can do everything but everyone can do something.” What my
'something' is I am not entirely sure at the moment but it is
certainly not painting pictures.
 |
| George Foreman smiling ..................... |
My
interest picked up when the teacher stated that we would be learning
about the abstract artist Gillian Ayres and we would then paint a
picture in her style. We were treated to a short presentation about
the artist, which included a slide show of a number of Ayres's
pieces, which were vibrant and colourful, not my thing at all. But
then the last painting that we were shown took my eye, it consisted
of blocks of black and white paint, with a little bit of brown thrown
in, and it had an austere and bleak feel. Bingo – that was exactly
the type of picture I wanted to paint. But when the teaching
assistant put the paints on the table there was no black and white
paint, only bold and bright blue, red, yellow, purple and pink. At
primary school all of the melancholy bits are edited out.
The
kids were implored by the teacher and her sidekick to not mix the
paint or not even to get paint on the newspaper that covered the
table. Why ever not? I like things to be tidy as much as the next
person with mild obsessive compulsive disorder but let the kids get
on with it and be messy and if they end up painting over the face of
Oliver Letwin in the Daily Telegraph then all the
better.
I
finished my picture pretty quickly and was content with it, in a
fashion, so I sat quietly and glanced around at all of the other
kids' paintings. The teaching assistant shattered my peace as she was
working her way around the tables, heading my way, instructing the
children to “fill the page with colour, there should be no bits
left un-painted!” so that the pictures would emulate those of
Gillian Ayres. But I didn't want to cram my page with colour, I like
open spaces, to give things room to breathe, and my anxiety levels
rise at the thought of things being cluttered. And some of the kids
might not want to paint the whole page too and their creativity
should be left to find its own way. But being the coward that I am as
the assistant approached I quickly picked up a paint brush and looked
busy, without actually doing anything.
 |
| ..................................George Foreman not smiling. |
After
an hour or so, I agreed with myself that I had done my stint and I
said my goodbyes and headed for the door, leaving my painting behind
to be consigned to the bin, where it belongs. As I walked across the
car park I could barely believe my eyes – all of the year 5 pupils
and their dads were not going through the rigours
of abstract painting under the supervision of the Tory
cabinet but were instead enjoying a game of football on the field
in the sunshine. My first instinct was to tell the dads not to
bother showing up next year as they'll be doing painting but I didn't
see why they shouldn't suffer too. It then struck me that I wouldn't
be coming to the school for much longer as Kenteke is leaving shortly
as he is going to high school in the Autumn. I then had that funny
feeling that I guess most parents have, that I want Kenteke to grow
and thrive and progress but on the other hand I want him to remain as
a primary school child forever. “They grow up so quickly” is
probably the most used phrase in relation to children but there is no
greater truism.
And
the reality of Kenteke going to High School was brought home
yesterday when I was at a parent's evening at his new school. All
parents were ushered into the school hall for a talk by the
headmaster – or more like head salesman, given the patter he used
to “sell” the merits of the school to the parents – and his
underlings. As all the parents have already signed their kids up with
the school I wished the headmaster would have dispensed with the hard
sell and just got on with the business of the evening but he couldn't
help himself. More often than not salespeople still carry on with
their selling spiel when they are off duty because what they are
really trying to sell is not a product or a service but themselves.
 |
Black & White Composition by Gillian Ayres, by request of
Toby In-Tents.
|
The headmaster explained
that when children leave the school they will have their “ticket”,
meaning they will be prepared for life after high school
education. I mused that “ticket” is an odd choice of word as if
the Pirate, the landlord of the Flagon & Gorses, gives me my
ticket it means that he is telling me, “you're barred son!”
Next
we were corralled into a classroom to meet Kenteke's new
teacher, Mr H, who when he smiles looks like George Foreman, the
former world heavyweight champion who is now known for his fat
reducing grills, which are like an executive version of the humble
Breville. It was overbearingly hot in the classroom, there were no
seats left and I am suffering from the dizzy wobbles at the moment,
so overall it was not a comfortable experience. Mr H explained the
school's discipline procedures and that bad behaviour is
initially dealt with by a yellow and red card system. I thought
what chaos such a system would have caused when I was at school –
the teacher would have had to abandon the lesson due to too
many dismissals. I hope that Kenteke's disciplinary record is similar
to Gary Lineker's and not like Vinnie Jones's. Mr H went on to state
that a red card could lead to the child being sent to isolation, a
bit harsh treating the kids like Papillion but if
it works then fair enough.
After
banging on for far too long Mr H asked if there were any questions. I
prayed that no one put their hand up as I was sweating profusely and
felt faint headed and I just wanted to leave. I looked around the
room and there seemed to be a mutual understanding, no
questions, it's too hot let's just get out of here and go to our
respective homes and public houses. But then, after a brief
teasing pause, while I was heading for the door up went a torturous
hand. I hope that the first lesson they teach Kenteke in High School
is, “there is a time to ask questions and there is a time to keep
quiet.”
©
Dominic Horton, June 2015.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
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