Wot I woch on telly

Mrs Williams at Malhurst Primary School, desirous of going in search of some aspirin, set her class the task of writing a composition on “What I watch on television”.
She saw Belinda Tamsen, atrocious speller though she was, snatched up her pen and began to scorch up the paper – and Mrs Williams knew she and her staff room colleagues would soon be learning more about the dysfunctional Tamsen household.

Wot I woch on telly-vidgen
By Belinda Tamsen

I dont see enny-think on telly-vishun becoz mummy and daddy is orlways fitin over the remote cont-trole ex-pesh-ally this week when mie daddy wunts to wotch soccer and mie mummy wunts to wotch tennis.
If mummy win then we hafta wotch wimble-dun and for the nest 200 ours we hafta lissen 2 pok-pok-pok-pok-pok OWT! Pok-pok-pok-pok Juce! And then some-body name Ivan something itch win and he slides on his knees. It is so bor-ing. If my daddy win then we havta wotch soccer and he showt SHOOT SHOOT YOU BLUDDY FOOL.
And he ask me How can that iddi-yot get paid fifty milyun thowsind an he cant even see the gole?
As if I am sposed 2 no!
I wunt 2 wotch sumthink intrestin like super robot munky. I tell daddy I wanta see sumthink inter-resting and he say the soccer cup is histry in the making. Then he suddinly showt OFF SIDE! He was bluddy OFF SIDE! and he ask everybody – Did you orl see that. Mummy roll her eyes.
Daddy say we must orl emty ow piggy banks and send the munny to the reffa-ree so he can by glasses becaws he is bluddy blind.
And when sumbody gets kicked and lies on the grownd all curld up he showt gerrup you goddam sissy. Sum times he even sware.
Mummy askt daddy to switch the telly-vishun 2 tennis becaws the soccer scor was nill nill and even daddy was neely asleep so he switch just for a minnit and wen he switch back sumbody have scord and he didnt see it and he showt so lowd my little brutha wet hisself. So did the dog.
Wun satiddy after-noon we had tennis, soccer, rugby, crickit an car racing orl at the same time but daddy forl asleep in the armcher. We manage to taik the remote controle offa him and woch a film abowt chim-pan-zees. mummy say it is a bit like wotching soccer but mor in-telly-gent.

Beryl, the real peril

Health and safety officers in Britain are alarmed at the number of children doing adults’ work – illegally.
They found a 12-year-old operating a mechanical digger laying drives in Birmingham, and a l3-year-old girl working as a hospital receptionist. – Report.

Beryl (13) knew, in her heart of hearts, that she was too old for Selwyn (12), but then, she told herself, Selwyn was way ahead of his years.
Did he not drive a 32-ton mechanical digger which could, with one scoop, lift out a fair-sized cottage?
Indeed, had he not done just that – accidentally?
The problem was, Beryl said to herself as she examined her acne in the little mirror at Thornton Hospital reception desk, Selwyn was doing a man’s job – yet her parents refused to admit it.
Ok, so it was their cottage he had totalled. But still, it was no reason for them to go on and on about it for two whole days.
The telephone rang and Beryl chanted: “Thornton Hospital! How may I help yoo-hoo?”
It was a very excited woman on the other end. Beryl puzzled, removed the phone from her ear and stared for a moment into the earpiece. Then she said “What? I mean pardon, madam? You say your waters have broken?
“I think you need a plumber. Try the Yellow Pages.”
Beryl put down the phone in time to see the dragon-like Mrs Monckton coming down from seeing her husband in ward 6. The old lady waddled up to the reception desk and announced “Ernie is much better today. He says he’s dying to come home.”
“It’s the anaesthetic,” said Beryl, “it can’t have worn off yet.”
Beryl removed the wooden tongue-depressor she used as a bookmark and tried to continue reading Nancy Drew and the Arab Prince. But her mind was in turmoil.
There was the disco tomorrow night, and what to wear, and Bob’s invitation to his school dance.
Bob, now in Std 9, was working part time driving locomotives. His kid brother, too young to even climb on to one of those monsters, had to be satisfied working a signal box on Saturday mornings.
It was nice earning money, Beryl told herself, as she thought of all her friends who were either studying or in labour.
The phone rang again: “ThorntonHospitalhowmayIhelpyoo-hoo?”
It was a woman asking how it was that her husband, who was being treated for asthma, died of heart disease? Beryl reassured her: “Please, madam, if the hospital was treating your husband for asthma he would have died of asthma.”
Beryl saw young Doctor Harding walking past, nonchalantly swinging his stethoscope. She sighed a little sigh. He once did 10 tonsillectomies in an hour. Everybody said that wasn’t bad for a 15-year-old.
Her thoughts slipped back to her boyfriend, Selwyn. Maybe she thought, he would look older if his mother let him wear longs. But his mother wouldn’t buy him any until he learned to do joined-up writing.
It was fair enough. Selwyn had a little dyslexia but it was hardly a handicap. There was just the one incident where Selwyn had ripped up the drive of number 31 Oak Avenue instead of number 13. But everybody makes mistakes.
And, anyway, it was nothing compared with what Bertie Grimes did at the airport. But then Bertie was only 11 and, as the chairman of the board of inquiry said, at Bertie’s age, he should never have been put in charge of air traffic control.