The Ark is a “Cultural Centre for Children”. My children hate it. I’ve brought them there loads of times and it is always deathly dull except for one time when there was a great fiddle player. The mere mention of the Ark is enough to bring them all out in hives.
Michael arrived home in tears from school recently because the class were going to visit the Ark. “Please,” he begged me, “don’t sign the permission form.” Daniel was stoically resigned to his fate but Michael kept begging us not to let him go. We pointed out that it would be a trip out of school. “I’ll miss break” he cried, “I’d rather have homework than go to the Ark.”
Nevertheless, we were adamant that this was culture and he would go. He cried lustily all the way to school on the morning of the trip. That evening I came home full of trepidation. The particular event at the Ark had been an Irish story telling session. Daniel was filled with enthusiasm; it was so funny, it had been brilliant. I looked at Michael, “Did you like it?” “A bit,” he conceded reluctantly and proceeded to fill me in in great detail about the session which he had, despite himself, really enjoyed. He still never wants to go back though.
One swallow doesn’t make a summer.