As the taxi turned into one of the main streets in Clapham, with me slumped in the back seat tired after a long day at work, I looked out of the window in a daydream. The taxi drove past Anthony’s, a local private school favoured by many of the Clapham families. Outside the school there was a long queue of very smartly dressed prospective parents, quietly waiting and politely chatting to each other. There was a feeling of nervousness wafting around the group…….. I immediately realised it was the school’s ‘Parents Interview’ evening – this was an important step for any parent in getting your child accepted into Anthony’s…..
It bought back memories of our first visit to the school. Abigail and I had dressed up (combed/gelled my hair, new tie and suit for the occasion, whilst polishing my shoes very carefully etc..) keen to impress the headmaster, bursar, teachers, catering staff and anybody else who was vaguely associated with the school in the hope that we could get our young son a place. There was a feeling of slight panic mixed with a dollop of fear at the imagined ‘ordeal’ of visiting the school. This was primarily because we had been told that the school was 8 to 9 times over-subscribed and this was one of a few schools which the kids “had” to go to in Clapham ….. this was real pressure. It was all the more accentuated by the fact that if Jonathan got a place at Anthony’s, George would immediately get a guaranteed siblings place too. We were ready to beg to get Jonathan into Anthony’s and therefore be awarded the right and privilege of paying the owners of the school the tidy sum of £18,000 per year for an education. This was the school… we both wanted it !
I discovered the stress associated with getting into the right school one Friday evening whilst at a dinner party at our friends, the Arbuthnotts. I was sitting between two young mothers. Their children were now current and proud competitors in what is called the British education rat race. During the first course (probably mackerel pate), the conversation turned to children – something which usually happens fairly quickly at dinner parties populated with parents. I explained that we had a 3 month old son called Jonathan, and both ladies, sitting either side of me, were appropriately polite about how sweet he must be. The conversation slowly drifted onto schools:
“Where is Jonathan going to go to nursery?” I was asked
“Don’t really know yet – he is too young, we haven’t thought about it”
There was a moment silence and both ladies looked at me in shocked. I am sure I detected a slight look of amusement on their faces, the same look you might have when you watch a young puppy trip over his own tail. That look you give to someone who says something particularly naive.. a look of pity and amusement mixed into one.
“He is not registered?” one inquired.
“Nope” I said sipping on my wine calmly.
“You do realise that there are only three decent nurseries in Clapham – ‘Jammy Camel’, ‘Numbers’ and ‘Rabbit Burrow’? They each take 20 children per year and get oversubscribed very quickly – most people register children when they are still foetuses. If you don’t get into the right nursery you won’t get into the right prep school and then you won’t get into the right senior school and basically you can forget about university”
The other mother nodded in agreement
“Our little Allegra, is at Jammy Camel, and down for Longwood Manor. They will get her into Benenden. Mike is absolutely adamant she should go to Cambridge like him and I – although the damp air of the Fens in winter may mean she is better suited to Oxford ” (Note – what about the damp air of the Thames Valley ? – Nevertheless good excuse to use if Jonathan ever goes to somewhere like Sheffield Hallam. “It was better for his chest – Yorkshire clean dry air”)
I was stunned – my wine was no longer enjoyable and I wanted to go home and look into this nursery thing. I wanted to go straight away – if I stayed too long and did not get busy registering my only son and heir for nurseries and schools, my little 3 month old Jonathan was destined to a life of misery and social hand outs. It was imperative we went home to start registering.
Within a week, Jonathan was registered with three nurseries (those named above), three prep schools (Anthony’s Clapham, Longwood Manor, and Malten Lodge), I had visited the estate agent to check whether we lived in the catchment area for the best local state school, and I had started a spreadsheet for registration for senior schools – both boarding and day, co-ed and boys only. Within a month Jonathan was registered with a number of senior schools including: Eton, Harrow, Stowe, Marlborough, Charterhouse, Tonbridge, Radley, Bradfield, Gordonstoun, Framlingham, Sherborne, Repton, Rugby, Sherborne, Winchester, Uppingham, Gresham’s, Oundle, Dulwich College, Westminster, St Paul’s, St Edwards Oxford, King’s Wimbledon, The Leys, Felsted, Hayleybury and Wellington. The application to Ampleforth had been filled out and just needed to be posted. After some thought I felt that it would be over the top to register for Stonyhurst and Malvern College too so I put further applications on hold. I started to relax feeling I had covered all geographic scenarios and academic and sporting possibilities.
It was one evening a few weeks later, whilst watching TV in the company of my wife, that I experienced a second episode of high stress to do with my son’s education. Abigail was chatting to me when she mentioned that she had met the wife of the Headmaster of Longwood Manor at the local butchers, Hennessy’s.
“I just don’t get it – she just does not like me” explained Abigail
“Why?” I asked
“I think she is jealous of me – I mean the fact that her husband kept asking me out when we were at university together, probably has something to do with it”
“What?? What do you mean ‘asked you out’? University together?”
“Don’t get jealous – I kept telling him to get lost. Not my type – couldn’t have been clearer to him. Yup..I told him very clearly – maybe with hindsight I was a touch brutal !!”
“What do you mean you said no? Brutal ?? What does brutal mean ?? Ohh..What does this mean for Jonathan’s application into Longwood Manor? Why could you not go out with him? That’s so bloody selfish of you !! Oh Christ almighty….this is a bloody disaster….. I need to calm down… deep breaths… deep breaths..I can feel my heart palpitating…oooohhhh”
“Look I didn’t fancy him and he is a bit boring frankly. Anyway how was I meant to know he was going to be headmaster of Longwood Manor? Don’t be so ridicoulous ! He was not my type – and anyway its a long time ago. Grow up.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to me… Err Is he happily married ?? Tell me – have you ever spoken since – can we make this up to him ?? What did he study at uni ?”
“Geography – why ?”
“Geographyyyy!!!! Of course he was going to be a bloody teacher then … you don’t do Geography to become a bloody explorer… the only thing you can do with Geography is teach – its like English bloody Literature ! You should have known… ohhh why couldn’t you just go out with him??”
…………………. a few years later it was with great pride that Jonathan, Abigail and I walked to Anthony’s Clapham to drop Jonathan off for his first day at ‘big’ school…….
P.S. I may still register for Stonyhurst in case we decide to move to Lancashire – best be safe….
