I live in a madhouse. This is partly because I have one mad (as a meat axe) daughter, The Hiss, who spends the weekend working herself into a hysterical lather because of an impending maths test (on other weekends replace 'maths' with science).
Because the logic of the square root eludes her she vents her anger on Spanner and me. I try to keep out of it but her wild rants inevitably suck me into her whirlpool of rage and bitter recriminations.
"What would you know about maths, Mum. Keep out of it. Leave me alone." This is delivered in a scream as I try to intervene to protect Spanner, who has attempted to break down the mystery of Pythagorean theory into a simple sentence. He fails miserably because The Hiss listens to no one. All she hears is the crashing of numbers as they threaten to smother her in their infinite configurations.
Poor Hiss. If only she realised that maths is just numbers and that accountants can do the hard stuff once you're my age. But she doesn't get it. So we all suffer. Even the poor dog covers her ears and follows me out of the room when the books, pencils and pens start to fly.
It could be worse. I guess.
Back to the pool where my efforts to follow the clock induce the same level of panic that I'm sure is experienced by The Hiss.
Like mother like daughter.