YOUR own children, thanks to good genes and excellent parenting, are great. Other people’s children, by contrast, always disappoint for these reasons:
You can’t get through a minute’s conversation without their kids, who frankly are running to pork, demanding a smoothie or a fistful of Haribo or Netflix on. And whether it’s another packet of crisps or Daddy to play horsey, they get it. Meanwhile your two are quiet because they’re playing games on your phones.
‘Mummy’s drunk too much wine,’ their eight-year-old announces, ‘and Daddy’s going bald! Ha ha!’ And their ineffectual parents shrug it off impotently with never a hint of discipline. It’s different when your daughter loudly asks why Auntie Kate’s got such huge boobs. She’s intellectually curious.
There’s nothing like planning a fun evening with friends and being cornered by an eight-year-old explaining the latest Minecraft update in full. ‘You see it now has camels, which protect you from mob attacks,’ mmm, sorry you’re so dull. Totally unlike your own children, who merely have enthusiasms they want to share and are so articulate.
It’s a shame, because neither parent is ugly but their youngest seems to have inherited the worst aspects of both. Small-eyed, long-nosed and an overbite like a marmot. And surely they could do something with her hair? It’s not the same as your teenage son’s spots, which are a temporary affliction and will clear up soon.
Their limited vocabulary was obvious, so you couldn’t resist setting a few simple maths problems for their eight-year-old and oh dear. Stumped by simple number bonds they should have learned in infants. Still, it’ll save in university fees. Your daughter does have a tutor, yes, but only because of her dyscalculia.