'What did you do today?' I'd ask my son after returning home from school. I should point out that school for him at that tender age was a class full of seventy children sitting three or four to a bench in a small town in Central Asia.
'We had maths today'. He'd say. Hoping that his grasp of maths would an improvement on mine I'd eagerly ask what he'd learnt.
'Well I wrote a poem'. I 'd reach for his maths book and find in between the pages what I'd consider to be a great piece of writing (well I am his father) about dragons flying by and whistful longing. School was hard for him at that time (although it should provide him with a set of excellent dinner party stories later in life) and he'd escape to his imaginary world to find strength.
'Well it certainly is bringing out the artist in you.' I'd think to myself whilst battling feelings of guilt for putting my son through a daily schooling experience which was unorthodox to say the least.
This one is for sale: