Dream
The 5-year-old is fascinated by The Ocado Man.
When he arrives, she hides behind the pillar in the kitchen and watches, in awe, as he places the shopping bags on the counter.
When he leaves, she asks questions:
“Where does he get his uniform?”
“Where does he live?”
“How did he get that job?”
I tell her I don’t know.
“I want to be The Ocado Man,” she says, dreamily.
An endorsement of the illusion of status is a rejection of humanity. The 5-year-old’s refusal to be deceived by this destructive social construct fills me with faith.
Her dream is unaffected, pure - a real dream.
The doorbell rings. The 5-year-old takes up her position behind the pillar. I open the door.
The Ocado Man wipes his feet and brings the shopping through.
I look to the 5-year-old and gesture with my head, encouraging her to emerge and talk with him.
She cautiously reveals herself, approaches The Ocado Man, and says:
“Excuse me, how do you be The Ocado Man?”
The Ocado Man, sharp as a tack, replies:
“Fail your GCSEs.”
I snigger, he smiles, the 5-year-old flees.
I find her sitting on her bed, pensive.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“How do I fail a GSE?” She replies.
The Male Nanny
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