They call me a genius. Please, Ma, Pa, it's not genius. There never was genius. Either that or 'A Child Prodigy'. To them it was simply an alternative to ' A Genius', and they did so with the same carelessness and the same stupid look as Ma and everyone else.

Those who knew what my life was like would rather refer to me as a child prodigy, and they'd do so because only they understood that there was nothing more to it than that, and they did so out of sympathy and respect, with a gentle look that seemed to reach out and pat me on the shoulder.

I hate that too, but I'm secretly grateful - to my tutor and the people I rehearsed with. I can take some solace in those precious few moments.

The concert with the Vienna Philharmonic will be in another hour, and I'm in the dressing room. A nice lady applied some powder to my face.

'Just a little', she said, with the kind expression a mother would to her child suckling away at her breast, 'just a little to make sure the lighting wouldn't mess with your complexion.'

I was just about to say thank you, and ask for her name, but then Ma sauntered in the dressing room. Midway through the door, she saw me and she saw the nice lady and she saw what she had done to her child's face.

And Ma snapped.

The poor lady was on the verge of tears, and Ma screamed at her for putting too little make-up on my face, that I would be in no way appealing to the audience.

I felt sorry for her. I said so, but she had already dashed out of the door, and Ma, slamming the door shut after her, replied 'don't be, I'll fix you up right'.

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