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Matilda
by
Roald Dahl
It’s a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child
is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think
that he or she is wonderful.
Some parents go further. They become so blinded by adoration they manage to
convince themselves their child has qualities of genius.
Well, there is nothing very wrong with all this. It’s the way of the
world. It is only when the parents begin telling us about the brilliance of
their own revolting offspring, that we start shouting, “Bring us a basin!
We’re going to be sick!”
School teachers suffer a good deal from having to listen to this sort of twaddle
from proud parents, but they usually get their own back when the time comes
to write end-of-term reports. If I were a teacher I would cook up some real
scorchers for the children of doting parents. “Your son Maximillian”,
I would write, “is a total wash-out. I hope you have a family business
you can push him into when he leaves school because he sure as heck won’t
get a job anywhere else.”
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