MY MUM: Yes, darling.
ME: When I grow up, mummy...
MY MUM: Yes, darling.
ME: What will happen to me, mummy?
MY MUM: Whatever do you mean, darling?
ME: What will happen to me when I'm older?
MY MUM SMILES AT ME. (I'M IMAGINING I'M ABOUT 6 YEARS OLD DURING THIS, BY THE WAY).
MY MUM: Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, darling.
ME: But, I'm frightened, mummy. Petrified in fact. (I HAVE AN EXCELLENT VOCABULARY EVEN BACK THEN)
MY MUM: What of?
ME: The future, mummy. The vast and terrible future. It's so horrid and stifling, mummy. I can't take my mind off it. I'm consumed, mummy. Consumed with doubt and worry. Can't you see the fear in my eyes, mummy?
MY MUM: Oh, Johnny-John-John-John-John, my little yoghurt-pot, there's nothing to worry about at all. Theres nothing to fear. Nothing to fear at all.
ME: But, mummy what will happen to me! I beg you, I emplore you; I order you to tell me!
MY MUM: Well. Exactly the same as happens to all of us. We end up grey and dull, frustrasted and sad. Your dreams are crushed and your potential suffocated. It's very bleak darling, but I assure you it's perfectly natural.
ME: I don't want that to happen to me mummy. I want to be different. I want to be... an iconoclast.
MY MUM: A what?
ME: An iconoclast! I want to smash everything up and start again. Build new things and have new ideas.
MY MUM: Sounds a bit postmodern to me young man. Your father won't like it.
ME: Fuck that shit, mummy!
MY MUM SLAPS ME.
MY MUM: This is heresy, Johnny. Heresy and treason and wrong. Very wrong. Now I want you to go upstairs and start blogging about graphic design or graffiti or brands or adverts you've enjoyed. People have spent a long time establishing these conventions, and you can damn-well go and adhere to them.
I GRUMBLE AND GO TO MY ROOM.
MY MUM: Little shit.
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