Spoilt

Portia strode into my class with the woman shuffling behind. The string put me in mind of a sort of packing twine, pale and brittle. It enhanced the impression the old woman gave off: that of a kicked puppy being tugged about on a leash.

Portia's eyes gleamed. They shone black, to match her hair, and in contrast to her rosy cheeks and luxurious cream coloured scarf. One glance at her, and you got the impression this child wanted for very little. Perhaps had never wanted for anything, in all her twelve years.

Besides this, there was an aura of something around her. Busy as usual, I didn't take a moment to decide what it was. Now, I think, it was certainty. The girl knew, beyond all shadow of doubt, that she would get what she wanted. It irked me a bit, I won't lie. Such entitlement doesn't render one likeable. Quite the opposite. I felt a pressing desire to burst her bubble.

I think I was successful in squashing that impulse, but Portia didn't help. If anything, she fed it... by considering herself above her classmates and my instruction.

"Take off your coat please, Portia," I said. Those eyes sparkled in reply. "And the scarf. Come on. No outer-wear indoors. That's the rule."

"I'm cold," she said blithely, a smirk on her lips.

Several minutes later, she still sat there, as if on a throne, her courtiers giggling beside her, and her outerwear very much still on.

With thirty or so other royals to attend to, time spent on just one must be limited to brisk words dished out in passing. These remarks bounce off that knowing little grin.

Next it was, 'Portia, get your book."

The little old woman scurried to fetch it, the yarn pulling and pulling almost to breaking point. Portia seemed not to notice the tug, nor the old woman's wince.

"Portia, why have you not done any work?"

"I don't have a pen."

It's difficult not to sigh, not to roll my eyes.

"Initiative, Portia. Ask to borrow one. You have several friends. You could ask me. I always have pens."

She doesn't even bother to shrug.

The old woman, hunched over, came to my desk and took a pen. She avoided the brown thread seemingly unconsciously, by instinct.

It would be better if she pushed Portia to do things for herself, to be self-reliant.

I scoop my little Clarence up from under my desk and cradle him to me. He is deliciously warm and squidgy. My heart overflows. He will never be spoilt like Portia, and I will never be dried up and worn out like that sad old woman. I will cut the cord by then.

Definitely.