Boy Seymour is a git and a twunt and a maniac. He’s annoying and puerile and totally f@cking infuriating. He shouts and rants and raves. He throws stuff. He fibs.
That is on a bad day.
On a good day, however, Boy Seymour is charming and helpful. He is courteous and well-mannered, kind and gentle. He listens when others speak, and he shows maturity and sense. He has oodles of empathy.
Every day, that boy is downright clever. It just depends on what mood he is in as to whether he puts his intelligence to use, or to waste.
Every day, I love him.
Yet something happened on Saturday which proved to me that Boy Seymour may be all of the above, but when it matters – when he is out in the world, representing The Four Little Seymours as a whole, he is a bloody legend, because my son has only gone and won the title of (drumroll please… ) CUB OF THE FRICKIN’ YEAR!
Now, he may only have been awarded this title from our little local Cub troupe (which actually happens to be the oldest one in the world, don’t you know!), but he may as well have won Cub of the Universe as far as I am concerned, because for his perseverance, sense and maturity, he has been recognised. The maniacal laughter and sister-scaring stunts are forgotten. His habit of BREAKING EVERY SODDING THING THAT HE TOUCHES is forgiven. I am even prepared, for a short while, to overlook the fact that, when it comes to homework, his procrastination tactics make me want to die, so painful are they.
Yes, my son is CUB OF THE YEAR, a local legend. A God amongst men.
Which might mean, perhaps, that the poor child deserves a decent hair cut…
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