I've come across a few at dinner, one family making home movies and the dentist across the way working on a frightened old lady.
Mr. Dussel, the man who was said to get along so well with children and to absolutely adore them,
has turned out to be an old-fashioned disciplinarian and preacher of unbearably long sermons on manners.
Since I have the singular pleasure (!) of sharing my far too narrow room with His Excellency,
and since I'm generally considered to be the worst behaved of the three young people,
it's all I can do to avoid having the same old scoldings and admonitions repeatedly flung at my head and to pretend not to hear.
This wouldn't be so bad if Mr. Dussel weren't such a tattletale and hadn't singled out Mother to be the recipient of his reports.
If Mr. Dussel's just read me the riot act, Mother lectures me all over again, this time throwing the whole book at me.
And if I'm really lucky, Mrs. van D. calls me to account five minutes later and lays down the law as well!
Really, it's not easy being the badly brought-up center of attention of a family of nitpickers.
In bed at night, as I ponder my many sins and exaggerated shortcomings,
I get so confused by the sheer amount of things I have to consider that I either laugh or cry, depending on my mood.
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