My grandchild Sylvie spends most of her waking hours talking to bears or dancing like a dervish or bashing drums or painting abstracts or telling barmy stories – negotiating a liminal state somewhere between dreaming, larking and lunacy.
It’s called the “arts”.
It’s all I can do to keep up. She’s learning at a trillion miles an hour. It is magical time.
Well, we can’t have this. It must be slowly crushed. Modern education will see to it. If the primary school doesn’t quite do it, then the secondary school will. The arts – especially music, drama, dance – are disappearing from the syllabus.
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