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Lois Lane Has Nothing On Me

£3295.88

£3295.88

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Three thousand two hundred ninety five pounds and eighty-eight pence.

I have absolutely not right to be angry with him, he has no concept of money and I should have known his love of excess would extend to downloading music. He was positively heartbroken when I told him he no longer had unlimited access, and standing my ground with him is more difficult than with anyone I've ever known.

He's a brilliant negotiator, but he's still just a child, and I refuse to be manipulated by him.

Three thousand two hundred ninety five pounds and eighty-eight pence.

It's not the money, not really. If I were truly concerned about the money, I'd pull out the good old Jasmine A. Harts alias, write a few thousand words and sell it to one magazine or another. I've plenty of stories left in me and it would take a week at most. It's been a while since she's put out a novel, but I think she still commands a pound a word for short fiction. I should check with my agent. Actually, I think I recouped it already by canceling the Russia trip a while back. That's not the point though.

It's not the money, it's Luke's apparent inability to exercise anything resembling self-control. He has no internalised sense of limitation, not with food, not with books, not with conversation and, it seems, not with music. I hardly have much right to complain, I suppose. I'm sure there are parents out there who would gladly trade their own children's habits for a love of books and music.

I worry about what comes next for him, however. His interests now are innocent enough, save for the damn elephant he still thinks he'll manage to talk me into buying. What happens when one of the children at school passes him a cigarette-- or worse? What happens when he discovers an obsessive love for something that's not so innocuous?

How do I teach self-control to a child who seems to lack any internalised sense of enough? More importantly, can I do it quickly enough that he's safe in the outside world? How do I help him find limits before those who might exploit his brilliance and naiveté find him?

(What's more, how can I even ask these questions when for days now I've been thinking about-- no, longing for-- one specific person who could gain so much by doing just that? I'm a bloody hypocrite, and what's more, I'm a fool for trusting him. In all of my fifty-plus years I've never been one of those women to be fooled by a pretty smile and a few words of flattery. Suddenly, even when all the evidence tells me to run away, all I seem capable of doing is running closer. I'm a bloody hypocrite, that's what I am.)

Three thousand two hundred ninety five pounds and eighty-eight pence, and there's absolutely no one I can talk to about what really matters.

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