This is one of those Daily Mail, why-oh-why/hang 'em and flog 'em stories about a teenager being bullied to death, as they say, by school bullying, on-line bullying, just by the general vileness of the little bastards, these days.
Seems that her single Mum had alerted the school to what seems like a remorseless assault from her fellow-pupils, sorry students and that the school, bless the hard-working teachers and governors, did fuck all to protect her and the girl hanged herself. No doubt the perps were, themselves, victims of laissez-faire, luv'emtobits, doanyfin4'em, consumer parenting.
The story is a proper tearjerker, as only the Mail can create, and one does identify with the angry, grieving, bereaved mother's SomebodyMustDoSomething-isms.
On the other hand, I remember a young librarian and poet, Peter Stokes, saying to me that the school playground was the cruellest place on Earth. He was right enough, I guess, within reason; not as cruel as Obomba's Guantanamo Bay but pretty tough going, nevertheless, for many. All these i-shit gadgets can only have added to the misery of les enfants torturable but I don't see how schoolyard bullying can ever be eradicated.
And when you get further into the story it seems that Mum was never going to live with Dad, had migrated to Australia and then returned to Blighty a couple of years back, her daughter sporting an Aussie accent and then starting a relationship with her hitherto estranged father.
The girl was a swot, it seems and horrified by what one must assume is the now-normal, darkly pornographic advances of modern youth, the mobile telephone delivering not admiring billets douts but photos of scabby little cocks, inviting, according to the Mail, body-part reciprocity, I've shown you mine, you must show me yours, ps, a gangbang wld b nice, u slag; y'know, all the great advances delivered us by Steve Odd Jobs and Bill Gates - instantaneously, globally-circulated bullying and vileness.
And Mum trotted-out that most chilling of contemporary parentisms - she wasn't just my daughter, she was my best friend, my everything. Odd, how so many of these over-intense, over-protective relationships finalise themselves in tragedy.
I came away hating everybody concerned - the pupils, the school, the Mail and especially the mother. I know what it was like to go into an alien school, speaking differently from everyone else, but I was tough and smart and adaptable. And I had a brother and a sister and parents, neither of whom would, in their wildest dreams, call me their best friend. Mum should have tried to make a go of it with Dad, or some other bloke; she should have stayed in England or - having gone there and done well - stayed in Australia. Being an immigrant kid is shit, being an immigrant kid twice is still shit. I know. Being bestfriends with someone old enough to be your mother must make things horribly worse.
We should care for all the children, either they are all special or none of them are special, the fly-blown, brown child drinking dirty water in far-off Bongo-BongoLand or the Mummy's-Best-Friend here, in God's own country; what they need is our difference, our care, our responsibilty, our denials as much as our indulgences; the very last thing they need is our BestFriendshipness; if we, as we should, deny them that odious gift then maybe fewer of them will hang themselves when their peers beg to differ.