Of sports day and unsporting genes

So it was the brat's sports day yesterday and in a definitive declaration of where he gets his sporting genes from, he came firmly second last in both the races that he ran. But by God, he ran, he ran the fastest I have ever seen him running all his life, unfortunately his fastest was not fast enough. Never mind. He will revolutionise the world of Beyblade gaming, for sure.

The high point of the morning though was the cheerleading dance. When the brat mentioned it to me, I kind of snorted. "You are a cheerleader?"

Visions of Mena Suvari in American Beauty were clouding my gaze. "How can you be a cheerleader, brat?" I asked in all seriousness. "Cheerleaders are girls, in short skirts, doing all sorts of dancing with pompoms."

"I gotta pompom. I god two pompoms. In perpil colour. I gotta shake them all over my head and we dancing to Waka Waka. Which country Shakira comes from?"

True to his current fascination of countries of origin, the topic then digressed to Columbia and where it was on the map and whether Shakira is actually a She-Wolf or she is "jus predending."


The sports day dawned and the cheerleaders ran out with their shiny pom poms and a cuter sight was ne'er seen. And the brat danced his heart out. Now I know why he insisted mamma put Waka Waka as her ring tone, that too in volumes loud enough to wake the dead from the crematorium in the next suburb.

I leave you, dear readers, with images of the sweater clad purple pom pom waving cheerleader.