Last week, the brat arrived home waving a form. On which he had
already signed where it said Applicant. KKM. "Dat's my signature."
It was a form that was an application to take a karate exam. "Fer the
yellow belt," he informed me. He still being on the white belt despite
having done a year of karate class, thrice a week.
"Sir tole me to pracktiss hardly. An den I'll ged the yellow belt."
Much hardly pracktissing happened at odd times like when Mamma wanted
to doze off to sleep, but was compelled to stay awake and alert in
order to ooh and aah about perfect moves, which she couldn't quite
This morning as we packed him off to school, he reminded us, "Is my
karate eggzam tuday. Tell me beshtofluck."
And so we did. Mamma added a kiss on the forehead for good measure.
And when Mamma went to pick him up he emerged bearing certificate, a
yellow belt tied around his waist, the discarded white belt in his
hand and a smile splitting his face in half. "I did it, I did it," he
punched air, "I gotthe yellow belt." Around him, his batchmates were
streaming out all wearing different hued belts and bearing
He was hugged and kissed much to his embarassment and wiping of cheek
with back of hand, and asked if everybody got a belt today. "Yus.
Everybuddy got a new belt today. But yellow is the best colour. And
only I got that."
Ermm. I was compelled to agree.
I think that belt and that karate costume will have to be peeled off
his person under threat, duress and intimidation now. Too much
admiration of said sunny colour happening in mirror as I type this.