Talent

Mother tried awfully hard to make me a well-rounded individual, and failed miserably.

Every Saturday morning, my sister and I were sent off for lessons in something, despite our lack of discernable talent in any field (I always suspected they just wanted an opportunity to have sex, without the distracting noise of my sister and I screaming at each other).

I can’t remember the order, but there were piano lessons; I couldn’t co-ordinate my two hands to play their parts at the correct moment - my right hand was especially naughty. I used to bandage one of my hands on the way to my lesson, and claim a sprain, so would only have to play with one hand at a time. My teacher never mentioned this; she either had a very poor memory, and didn’t notice how often I was injured, or was thankful that my insults to her musical sensibilities were effectively halved.

The tennis lessons were spent eyeing up the boys in the club-room; badminton came to a dismal end after I came last in the club tournament, and refused to go back. With athletics, I ran looking behind me, hoping I wasn’t last. Perhaps if I had run looking straight ahead, coming last wouldn’t not have been such a certainty.

As a last resort, I was also packed off to Brownies. Working for my first badge - a sewing one - I had to hand-sew a pin cushion. I laboured over it, spending the entire Brownie class painstakingly stitching the item together. I was so pleased when it was completed - but my jubilation was short-lived. I had the sewn the pin-cushion to my uniform, and it had to be cut off (the pin-cushion, not the uniform).

Brownies also attempted to hone my empathy by having us take morning tea to the old people at a local home. I thought the old people quite frightening, and stood back, until I spotted one kindly-looking woman sitting alone. I approached, holding out my dish of cake. The sight of the cake fired up her diminishing neurons, and she lunged at me, teeth bared. I dropped the dish, and ran away. I never returned to Brownies again.

There was a point to this – I can’t remember what it was anymore. I think it had something to do with Girl Guide biscuits. Never mind. I suppose the moral to the story then can be that you don’t actually have to be very good at anything to have a fabulous life. I’m living proof.