Good at Nothing?

Ollie is twelve and lives in Liverpool. Last week, his teacher asked everybody in the class to write about something they were good at. Ollie looked at the empty page for a long time. Then he wrote, "I'm not good at anything."

It was true, he thought. He was bad at maths. He was afraid of dogs, so he couldn't play in the park with his friends. He wasn't interested in football, and in Liverpool everybody is interested in football. He was terrible at singing, and his drawings looked like potatoes.

On Saturday, he went to his grandmother's house, as he does every week. His grandmother, Rose, was worried about something. Ollie noticed it immediately. "What's wrong, Gran?" he asked. She told him about her neighbor, who was ill, about her garden, which was full of weeds, and about her old friend Betty, who didn't call anymore.

Ollie listened to all of it. He didn't look at his phone. He asked questions and waited for the answers. When she finished, Rose felt much better. "Thank you for listening," she said. "Nobody listens to old people."

"I'm good at nothing, Gran," Ollie said. "That's what I wrote at school." His grandmother laughed. "Ollie, do you know how many people are good at listening? Almost nobody. Your uncle talks about himself all day. Your father looks at his phone. You listen."

On Monday, Ollie wrote a new page. "I'm bad at maths and I'm afraid of dogs. But I'm very good at listening to people. My grandmother says it's the most important thing, and she's proud of me." The teacher read it and smiled. "That's the best page in the class," she said.