‘Ludo,! You made a mess in your nappy again. Never mind, Mummy will clean you up. Soon you’ll use the toilet like a big boy. When Wolfy was your age, he already used the toilet. You’ll practice until you can do it like him, then Father will be happy.’
Ludo made a Churchillian expression.
His mother grimaced as she inhaled the fetid stench of his yellow mess. Hopefully this child will live, she thought.
‘One day, Ludo, you will create something perfect.’ She promised. ‘You will be the greatest.’
Ludo knew Father would shout. He toddled into his own world and looked at the trees while his mother drank. There were other children but he didn’t join them. They made funny noises. He knew he was not like them.
The old man’s eyes are locked on eternity as he settles his fat naked buttocks onto the porcelain throne and readies himself. Then it comes; not in parts, but whole and perfect as though cast as a single piece. He doesn’t hear the splosh – he is profoundly deaf, but he knows that he has, at last, completed his masterwork. There is no-one to share the moment. He thinks of his mother, his immortal beloved.
His work is so perfect that he discards the paper in his hand as he has discarded all earthly things.
Not even a glory wipe is called for. His output is so perfect that nothing could be added or taken away.
‘Not even you, Wolfgang, could have created this,’ he bellows. ‘I have made something unlike anything before. Centuries from now they will talk of my creation. I have produced the perfect expression of humanity.’
He rises to his feet and lifts his arms wide as though conducting an orchestra.
‘Oh Joy! Oh Joy! This kiss to the entire world! Can you sense the creator?’
“da da da da, da da da da , da da da da daaa dadaa”