We're a clever bunch of primates, that's for sure. Not the strongest species under the sun but certainly the smartest, at least in this neck of the voids. Having sensibly avoided extinction, we've evolved to the point where we're giving the Gods a run for their money. Indeed, in terms of bending the world to our will, you may say we've already trumped the Olympians and most of the rest of the heavenly panoply to boot. There's not a lot we can't do.
Though there are a few things that elude our omnipotence. No one knows how to stop asteroids before they hit us, or how make Julia Gillard popular. Nobody's got the foggiest idea who'll pay for Auckland's Noddy trains and there isn't an astronomer alive who could tell you what planet Len 'The Line King' is on.
And there is one other matter which remains intractably beyond our control. As any parent will tell you, there's absolutely no way on God's good earth you'll ever get educators to take a blind bit of notice when you raise concerns about curriculum content or classroom conduct.
If you really want to know how it feels to be a pauper in the palace, insignificant and unwelcome, try telling a school principal you're not happy that your child can't read, or spell, for taht mettar, or is being taught that it's fine to play with a clitoris provided the owner says "Yes".
Years ago, the legendary retailer, Allan Martin, had a slogan; "It's the putting right that counts." But in schools, "it's the putting off that counts". Parents are expected to meekly accept whatever poppycock passes for modern educational dogma. Our job is to drop the classroom conscripts off and leave the rest to the experts, who will brush aside any protests from gormless mums and dads with a te-e-e-erribly sympathetic "there, there, you're upset, but the research clearly shows ..." response, this being the new-age way of saying, "Sod off, you meddlesome twit, and let us get on with the business of shaping your child as we see fit."
