Mrs. Posy-Porridge Crosses the Yakuza And So the Badgers Must Live in the Orphanage Until They're Old Enough to Work at the Factory
At the moment we’re staying with Ian and helping him look after Esme and Oscar while Antonia has a very well-deserved long weekend away. I’ve been reading to Esme from The Complete Tales of Beatrix Potter, which is all just a bunch of stories about animals in waistcoats telling each other they’re being naughty. They’re all named Jemima Pattywhack and Mother Tiddlewicket and Mr. Alderman Hearthrug Oilcloth, and they’re all talking about things that I couldn’t draw or define, like bobbits and bolsters and Sago. There’s a story about two naughty mice (The Tale of Two Bad Mice), a story about a naughty rabbit (Peter Rabbit), and then a story about a seriously naughty rabbit because some wiseass kid Beatrix Potter knew didn’t think Peter Rabbit was naughty enough (The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit). That rabbit gets shot by a man with a gun. There’s a picture and everything. Esme had me read that one to her thirteen times in a row and lingered on the charming drawing of the rabbit getting shot every time.
Recently I overheard a mother in an airport ask her three year old if he wanted to get on the plane. Woman, you are setting yourself up for a lifetime of misery. Why are you asking him what he wants like he gets a vote? Did he book those tickets? Let’s go back to the time of eat or be eaten and serious consequences, a time when childhood was an ailment treated with tight shoes and castor oil. Victorian England, fuck yeah!