My granddaughter, Sylvie, is two-years-old. Like all granddaughters, she has the beauty of a Botticelli, the brains of the Einstein, the grace of Margot Fonteyn, the humour of Buster Keaton, the expression of Jackson Pollock, and the mischief of Beryl the Peril.
She knows The Grand Old Duke Of York backwards, can tap dance forwards, can do dragon impressions and has a PhD in Larking About. What more could you want? Her mother feels that, all things considered, she is a genius.
Well, this is all very well, but the end is nigh. Why? She must soon go to school. She must soon enlist in our ever-crumbling educational system for about 13 years or 1,500 hours – or even longer. Poor Sylvie.
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