Money

i pick up Jethro from school. it's his first week and i've never been responsible for a child before. what the fuck? it dawns on me, as the kid clambers all over the disabled railings, screaming king kong, that, as a diplomat of someone elses parenthood, i'm probably expected to excercise a degree of discipline (or something). i blink at the herd of - mostly mothers - all of whose children appear dutifully restrained and under control. jesus. am i supposed to play the fascist here? am i supposed to "tell him off"? God. it's daunting. as one of my own i'd feel at liberty to allow my own agenda "don't tell me how to raise my kid!". but i'm awkward - stuck there - with someone else's life.

"c'mon Jethro - you don't want to stay here at school do you?" i try...
"NO"
"well shall we go then?"
"NO"
"yeah, easy for you to say, you little alien. you don't know what you want"
"i want ice-cream"
"ice-cream? that seems like a plausible escape"

"...i've got a fat coin. look!"

Jethro reveals a secret pound from his tiny fist. what a hustler! then he's pointing to a van - parked metres from the school gates - coz you know, they don't miss a trick. and before you can say marketing-to-children, i'm standing there in the queue with Jethro; like a fucking dickhead. He eyes up the map of frozen deserts with frantic fascination and after a chain of changes of mind, picks out a terrifying melting clown face whose eyes drip colourful E-numbers when in the sticky hands of a child. Jethro keeps close eye contact with the vendor and is clearly keen to make the transaction. i lift him up.

"keep my fat coin safe. if you dont - i'll chop your bum off!" fucking yes, Jethro.