Fatter than a caterpillar . . . Fatter than a caterpillar . . . Run rabbit run, run rabbit run. You stop, and I stop. You stop and I stop. Fatter than a caterpillar."

In my opinion, parents have two failings. The first is a compulsive need to give their offspring all the opportunities they never had. There are thousands of resentful adults out there who feel they were deprived of the chance to foster a talent because their parents were either too busy or didn't have enough money.

Seeking to ensure their children don't miss out in the same way, they enrol the children in hundreds of extracurricular hobbies. Thus a middle-aged lawyer who secretly yearns to play the banjo and his middle-aged wife, a computer programmer who always wanted to be a ballerina, will live out these dreams through their child - a banjo-playing pirouette-jumping ballerina.

It's inevitable, however, that this child will grow up wishing he had surfing lessons instead.

The second failing is an incredible ability to believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that their child is talented at whatever hobby has been selected. The same parents will, however, have no difficulty in seeing how bad another child is at swimming/ the piano/ballet etc. They will also endlessly criticise the child's parents for not being able to recognise this.

Sometimes these "failings" can really be blessings, and the child who grows up to be the lead in Swan Lake will be eternally grateful for the determination of his or her parents.

Unfortunately, this did not happen in my case. The hobby' my parents selected for me was the violin. Definitely not a good choice for one as tone deaf as myself.

I began learning early, my eager parents having no doubt heard that child psychologists recommend fostering talent from an early age. I didn't attend any old music lessons, not just violin lessons, but violin taught the "suzuki" way.

Had I been able to look into the past I would have found, quite quickly, the reasons my parents chose music for me. My father was "deprived" of the opportunity to learn a musical instrument, something he had always wanted to do. He also always wanted to sing and he will sporadically burst into verses of The Old Triangle as he curses his parents. My mother, on the other hand, was the child who was asked not to sing by the teacher during national school. She would have to sit down to the whispers of "crow" from the rest of the class. These scars obviously run deep; hence the violin lessons.

My memories of violin playing are not pleasant. I was a very slow learner. It took me a long time to master the rhythms of "fatter than a caterpillar", "run rabbit run" and "you stop and I stop". Even when I had mastered these I still had to tackle Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. To this day I cringe when I hear that tune. I remember, with tears of torment, the sound of bow and string grating cruelly together over each note. My attempt was, at best, more of a Screech, Screech, Little Star. I had a sheet of cardboard which showed me the position my feet were supposed to be in when I played. My teacher had traced around my shoes and into these outlines I would carefully position myself. I had a hard enough time remembering my left from my right foot let alone the strings of the violin.

To this day when I try to remember the different strings, I find myself saying "G is for George, D is for Dan, A in for Ann, E is for Egbert". Long after the other children had abandoned their pieces of cardboard my tattered friend remained close by.

I lived for the sweets my teacher would give at the end of the lesson. I wanted that reward, I needed that reward. I certainly wasn't getting any reward from the actual learning.

Looking back, I can pinpoint the moment my father's illusions began to falter. Being the concerned and well-meaning parent of a young child, he was perfectly content to leave all the practising and transporting to violin lessons to my mother, while boasting to his colleagues that his daughter could play Bach. Not quite, Dad. On one occasion, probably a Sunday afternoon, when it was time for "the family", he asked to hear me play. I can still recall the look of bewildered pain on his face as I butchered Handel's Judas Maccabaeus and, for an encore, a minuet in G by Beethoven.

The distressing thing is that for a while I actually thought I was quite good. I didn't enjoy lessons but I thought I was making progress. At some stage I think I even performed for my fellow classmates in primary school. The thought makes me cringe.

I struggled on to grade 2 or grade 3. I still have the examination certificates; looking at them, it seems suspicious that, while I failed each of the first categories, I miraculously always managed to pick up exactly the right amount of marks needed in the last section to pass overall. The examiners were obviously not averse to a little creative addition.

By the time I reached secondary school I had given up all thoughts of continuing with the violin. My parents had seen the light and didn't seem too bothered when I informed them that I was loosening my bow, dusting off the resin chalk and putting my violin away for ever. They probably heaved a sigh of relief.

My parents "failings" came to haunt them. By the time they had learned the error of their ways it was too late. I had grown up enough to make my decisions. Instead of learning from my parents mistakes, I will no doubt repeat them. My child will be enrolled in swimming lessons and be the Michelle Smith I never was, the Michelle Smith I could have been.

If I were handed a violin today and asked to play something, I am sure the only thing I would remember would be "Fatter then a caterpillar . . . fatter than a caterpillar . . ."

It is ingrained forever in my memory.