![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Misc.
First of all Happy Birthday to the lovely and ever so talented ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earth_vexer! Hope you're having a most fabulous birthday! *hugs*
Second, a question: How long can an LJ posts be? I have a vague idea that it's ten thousand words, but have no idea if this is correct. Does anyone know?
Third, this might be the best take on the whole celebrity thing that I've ever read. 4-year-olds are wonderful. And, because it is delightful and I love it, I've done a copy-and-paste. (Knowledge of British celebrities helpful, but not essential. I think.)
From The Sunday Times
October 21, 2007
Dad rules by Andrew Clover
I don’t get girl magazines. I hate all that “you can’t have too many shoes” stuff. I hate the coy use of the word “that” – “that dress”, “that special person”. Reading about famous people makes me feel depressed and inadequate and left out. Unless they’re footballers, in which case I can read for hours and hours.
And I want to explain this to my four-year-old daughter. We’re in the reception of the gym, waiting for the others to finish changing. She brings an old Hello! magazine.
“I will read this for you,” she says.
“I don’t like it,” I say. “I only like reading stories.”
“But this is a story,” she says.
She opens on a picture of Coleen McLoughlin. “That is Cinderella,” she says confidently. She points to Wayne Rooney. “And she loves him, and he is the most fierce and fast soldier in the whole of the king’s army.” I see her point. Rooney is Achilles. He’s the great warrior, brooding in his tent. She sees Steven Gerrard. “And he is a kind soldier. When the enemy are attacking, he gives everyone a cuddle.” Gerrard is Hector the Kind, skilled at shooting from afar.
“If that’s Cinderella, who are the ugly sisters?”
She turns over, and points to a picture of Paris Hilton. “She is. And also she is.” She points to Madonna. “And this,” she says, smiling adoringly at a picture of David Beckham, “is the prince. And he marries her” – she points to Posh Spice – “but she is a wicked stepmother.”
“How do you know she’s a wicked stepmother?”
“She is orange and spiky, and she’s got jealous lips.”
“What do jealous lips look like?”
“They look like that.”
Then she turns over to look at more pictures, finding more stepmothers. She sees Cherie Blair. “Another stepmother.” She finds Nancy Dell’Olio. “Definitely evil,” she pronounces. She sees Jade Goody. “And she is a pig. But she has been turned into a person by a witch.”
“Who is the witch?”
“Her.”
It’s Amy Winehouse. I’m a big fan of Winehouse. I need to know. “Is she a good witch or a bad witch?” She considers a long time. “Sometimes good and sometimes bad.”
She tells me the whole story, in which McLoughlin visits Winehouse and gets a magic nut. She eats it and falls over. She ends up in goblin-land, with Kate Moss and Pete Doherty and Russell Brand.
“If I was in this story,” I ask, “who would I be? Am I a magician who’s forgotten all his spells?”
“Noooo,” she shouts. “You cannot be in this story. You are in a different story. You are a daddy.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right, okay, I think I understand.”
“Now come on,” she says, getting out an old Elle. “Shall we read this?”
earth_vexer! Hope you're having a most fabulous birthday! *hugs*Second, a question: How long can an LJ posts be? I have a vague idea that it's ten thousand words, but have no idea if this is correct. Does anyone know?
Third, this might be the best take on the whole celebrity thing that I've ever read. 4-year-olds are wonderful. And, because it is delightful and I love it, I've done a copy-and-paste. (Knowledge of British celebrities helpful, but not essential. I think.)
From The Sunday Times
October 21, 2007
Dad rules by Andrew Clover
I don’t get girl magazines. I hate all that “you can’t have too many shoes” stuff. I hate the coy use of the word “that” – “that dress”, “that special person”. Reading about famous people makes me feel depressed and inadequate and left out. Unless they’re footballers, in which case I can read for hours and hours.
And I want to explain this to my four-year-old daughter. We’re in the reception of the gym, waiting for the others to finish changing. She brings an old Hello! magazine.
“I will read this for you,” she says.
“I don’t like it,” I say. “I only like reading stories.”
“But this is a story,” she says.
She opens on a picture of Coleen McLoughlin. “That is Cinderella,” she says confidently. She points to Wayne Rooney. “And she loves him, and he is the most fierce and fast soldier in the whole of the king’s army.” I see her point. Rooney is Achilles. He’s the great warrior, brooding in his tent. She sees Steven Gerrard. “And he is a kind soldier. When the enemy are attacking, he gives everyone a cuddle.” Gerrard is Hector the Kind, skilled at shooting from afar.
“If that’s Cinderella, who are the ugly sisters?”
She turns over, and points to a picture of Paris Hilton. “She is. And also she is.” She points to Madonna. “And this,” she says, smiling adoringly at a picture of David Beckham, “is the prince. And he marries her” – she points to Posh Spice – “but she is a wicked stepmother.”
“How do you know she’s a wicked stepmother?”
“She is orange and spiky, and she’s got jealous lips.”
“What do jealous lips look like?”
“They look like that.”
Then she turns over to look at more pictures, finding more stepmothers. She sees Cherie Blair. “Another stepmother.” She finds Nancy Dell’Olio. “Definitely evil,” she pronounces. She sees Jade Goody. “And she is a pig. But she has been turned into a person by a witch.”
“Who is the witch?”
“Her.”
It’s Amy Winehouse. I’m a big fan of Winehouse. I need to know. “Is she a good witch or a bad witch?” She considers a long time. “Sometimes good and sometimes bad.”
She tells me the whole story, in which McLoughlin visits Winehouse and gets a magic nut. She eats it and falls over. She ends up in goblin-land, with Kate Moss and Pete Doherty and Russell Brand.
“If I was in this story,” I ask, “who would I be? Am I a magician who’s forgotten all his spells?”
“Noooo,” she shouts. “You cannot be in this story. You are in a different story. You are a daddy.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right, okay, I think I understand.”
“Now come on,” she says, getting out an old Elle. “Shall we read this?”