Every parent is familiar with the situation when the lesson suddenly needs the original "La Gioconda", a gas mask, a model of the Eiffel Tower on a scale of 1:234 or a cast of a raccoon's paw. Moreover, the child reports this, as a rule, at ten o'clock in the evening. However, sometimes the teacher conveys the requirements to the parents himself, as happened with Olga Zaitseva.
The choreography teacher smiles all the time. He comes out after class and announces in the voice of a kind storyteller: - Dear parents, I need your help. And smiles like Mona Lisa.
I personally don't expect anything good from such words, but hope still trembled like a timid bird inside - maybe the furniture just needs to be moved or the windows washed?
Keeping a smile from her happy eyes, as advised in the famous song, the teacher said: - You know that the children will perform the dance of the gnomes. And I need you to make hammers for the dance. Hammers? Hammers??? What the hell are hammers? For what? To drive the last nail into the coffin of an incompetent mother? - Now I'll show you everything, - and she pulled out a rather large plywood structure from the bag. The bird of hope folded its wings and flew down with a deafening whistle.
But then one of the popes decisively came to the fore and asked for the floor. Here he is, here he is our hero! Now he will say that he can make these hammers for everyone or offer something constructive, cheers! Hope again began to work with wings and gain altitude. - Excuse me, but what kind of hammer is this? See how the tip is bent! - said dad. Bravo! These are the words we've all been waiting for. I immediately remembered the picture where the languid beauty in the arms of a muscular gentleman all trembling says: - I want to hear three main words. And he answered her, probably in a sexy whisper: - This is not a hammer.
But back to reality. - No, this is such a hammer, - the teacher answered. It was clear that with all the muscles trained over the long ballet years, she now keeps a benevolent expression on her face. “It’s more like a pick, after all,” the same dad continued, and the bird of hope realized that nothing was going to shine for her, took out a revolver from somewhere and, putting it to her head covered with fluffy feathers, pulled the trigger with her paw.
While this important discussion about dwarf tooling was reaching its climax, I frantically wrote a message to a friend whose suddenly ill child did not give her the opportunity to share with me all the joy of this moment. Olya, - I hastily wrote to her, - Olya! (obscene here) we need to make hammers. The answer was not long in coming. There, at first, it was also obscene, and then the question - what kind of hammers? I sent a photo of the plywood construction. We exchanged a few more expressive messages, in which we put all our surprise at the equipment of the dwarves. Then I received: “I showed my husband, he said that he would do it.” - Is he on vacation now? Maybe he will drink two? I asked timidly and discovered that hope is actually a phoenix bird, which has already come to life and covers up the wound on its head with brilliant green. - So I immediately told him “do two.”
God save my friends. And their other halves too! If not for them, I don’t know what my dwarf would carry on his shoulder. Perhaps a shovel. Or the burden of realizing that his father is on a business trip, and his mother is armless. And yet, let not a single dwarf be left without a hammer, pick or ice ax. Amen.