My children regularly pour out of playgroups and school with all manner of junk-modelled ‘art’. Most of the time I manage to seamlessly tidy these creations directly into the recycling box, but occasionally I’m forced to give them house-room for a while.
A couple of weeks ago the girls produced an extraordinary collaborative effort made out of what appeared to be the entire contents of the playgroup crafting cupboard. Yoghurt pots, loo rolls, plastic spoons and tin foil were haphazardly glued inside a large cardboard box, the outside of which was decorated with old CDs, shiny side uppermost. To say the girls were proud would be an understatement.
This monstrous sculpture sat on display until a few days ago, when Evie decided to break it up for parts. She used the yoghurt pots to house her extensive hairband collection, and proudly stacked her ‘CD collection’ next to mine.
This weekend, as the in-laws relaxed in the sitting room after a Bank Holiday roast, the children asked if they could listen to something. Always keen to encourage their love of audio-books I nodded my approval and smiled as my father-in-law noted their preference for stories over computer games. ‘Oh,’ I said, somewhat smugly, ‘we don’t let them play with anything like…’
I was interrupted by the children’s choice of CD blasting from their Fisher Price player at a hundred decibels: ‘CHANGE MY PITCH UP, SMACK MY BITCH UP, CHANGE MY PITCH UP, SMACK MY BITCH UP…’
The volume of Prodigy’s finest single was such that I couldn’t quite make out what my father-in-law was mouthing, but I don’t think it was complimentary.