Thursday 24th November – Ask Internet

What’s up with kid-ziz homework these days?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I know what homework is.

I remember being given it.

I remember faux-industriously filing it in my schoolbag until I was back in that particular lesson again.

I also remember that when I did get back into that particular lesson again, I was prone to promptly remembering that I was not very good at remembering stuff that was in my schoolbag, and was generally forced to resort to swift access of the ‘Great-Excuses-For-Not-Having-Done-Stuff’ part of my brain.

Little tip, it’s always easy to spot when my Nefarious-Neurons are firing because my eyes kind of glaze over for a second or two, but then, like a flash, I’m back in the room and my victim is making me a cup of tea and handing me a tissue.

No, back when I was in long socks, the oppressors and I navigated our way peacefully through a symbiotic, mutually beneficial landscape of my not remembering to do any work
and their relief that they didn’t have to waste their hundred and five days holiday a year marking it.

It would be fair to say that, even as a pup, I had already discovered the benefits of the win/win.

Things appear to have taken an ominous turn for the worse however as, if Annabelle is to be believed, schools these days seem to be expecting their hapless inmates to actually do their homework.

I know, right?

To make matters worse, not only does she bring her filthy homework notions into my God-Fearing home, she claims no knowledge of ever having been given a text book. In response to my threats to go through her bag (which I don’t mean of course, the last time I put my hand in that thing I had to have a tetanus shot. Aint nobody got time for that shit) she whips a sad, multi-folded, sticky little ‘worksheet’ thingy out of her inside blazer pocket.

(Her bag is for lugging around important stuff like Rimmel contour, rotten apples and her lighter).

After twenty-five minutes of ferocious unfolding and flattening activity I am expected to decipher what subject the water-marked hieroglyphs on the, what we’ll loosely refer to as a page, might pertain to. All the while she hovers beside me, nervously peering at my face, then back at the page, then back at my face to see if I have some understanding of what’s required here.

Sure I do.

Ask Internet.

I can’t tell you how many times I have patiently explained the facts of life to her.

Namely, Internet is way smarter than I could ever hope to be and that if he doesn’t know the contents of an atom, how can I be expected to?

The fact that these shenanigans usually take place at 21:49hrs right about when I’m on the point of discovering whether Billy-Boy off Benefits Britain did in fact manage to sneak the lawnmower out of Tesco and get the shopping trolley successfully strapped to the back of his moped doesn’t help the situation but a jot.

Does this mean I care little for my offspring’s education?

Shame on you.

Who do you think taught her that taking money out of Nanny’s purse is wrong and that the polite thing to do is ask for money, wait for nanny to forget she gave it to you already, and then ask her for it again?

How do you think she knows that whilst pushing people over kerbs is not cool, if they do it themselves it’s fine to laugh.

I didn’t see anyone else taking the time to show her that there is in fact a light switch in the Sin-Cupboard?

I can take no more.

I’m making a stand.

If schools are hellbent on this most un-British concept of expecting kids to write stuff screen-shot-2016-11-24-at-12-18-13down when the tele is on, then they must either start actually teaching the kids the subject before they leave the school gates, as opposed to spending the six hours a day they are legally responsible for warehousing the little hooligans, in never ending discussions about masturbation and the application of a condom whilst wedged in the back-seat of a Citroen C5, or just drop the pretence altogether and outsource the ‘learning-stuff’ part of the proceedings to the  classroom assistants.

Because I think you may be, ever so slightly, overestimating my grasp of cellular biology and coastal erosion here.

If she can’t sit next to a smart kid and copy their work like a normal person then I’m afraid I only have one answer.


You got it.

Ask Internet.

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