The Seymour Family is not musically gifted. So far, we have dabbled with the piano, the recorder and the ukulele. Boy showed a bit of promise for the guitar, but couldn’t be arsed to practise, at which point, I refused to pay for lessons.
We are the proud owners of a piano, but it’s inaccessible, hidden under two tonnes of crap in the as-yet untouched North Wing. Number One has scaled the piles of crap a few times, and tinkled on it – inspired by Youtube videos that teach her to play Bella’s Lullabye from Twilight. But it is not a safe thing to do, and so I have banned it.
Boy received a drum kit for his fifth birthday. He took the cymbals apart and fashioned sleek weapons out of them – razor sharp disks that could have taken a man’s head off, if they had been launched a la Odd Job’s hat in Goldfinger.
No more drum kits.
But last week, Boy Seymour, in frustration at being reprimanded one too many times, decided to write a song in his journal.
It goes like this.
Musik
My life is so bad
I hate my life
I feel like I am in hell being merderd over a thawsand times
I feel like running away
Yay!!!
This is hard to read. I am not happy about such “musik”. But Boy knows me. He’s clever, and he knows his words will upset me. That is precisely why he has done it -to protest the perceived injustices of his life.
The little bugger.
All of this, of course, makes me query the quality of The Four Little Seymours’ childhoods. No, they don’t get to go to Disneyland. Boy isn’t allowed on Fortnite, and he hasn’t got a phone.
They don’t get pocket money, have an ipad each, or a telly in their rooms.
But they have rooms! This is progress, surely. At least I no longer have to state that they all sleep on a large shelf in a shed.
And so I will try not to worry that my beloved if infuriating little sod is feeling hard done by. Deep down, he knows he is loved, and is lucky to have all that he has. He conveniently forgets that a few weeks ago, we had a marvellous day out at The Amberley Chalk Pits Museum, or that he recently had the privilege of taking a lurcher into a show ring and winning a rosette with it. He spent the day on Saturday helping Big Seymour prepare for a twelve hour lawnmower race, riding the race track on his mountain bike and doing scary stunts away from Nagging Mummy. And he has not just one but two holidays looming, where he can canoe, surf, pothole, fish and dig. He will be so busy, he won’t even remember he’s not allowed Fortnite, and that he is so very hard done by.
And I will try to ignore his Musik of doom. Maybe, tomorrow, he’ll write a love song.
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