I learned today that Jack has
been offered a place at the local academy school in September. I was keen to
move him from him from his current school, mostly on account of the fact that
he is the only child in his year. I did ask for an appointment with the Head to
discuss this about a month ago. Strangely enough while the secretary is
scrupulously efficient in pursuing overdue fees, she is concomitantly
inefficient in arranging appointments where difficult questions are in the
offing.
Frank and I opted for this school
after the Twinset’s first year at the local primary school when it came to our
attention at the end of reception year that Kate and Eve were unable to write
their own first names. We didn’t choose monosyllabic names to ensure an easy
introduction to the written word, but having done so I anticipated more
progress than was demonstrated. I have a number of friends who are teachers,
and can therefore virtually feel the heat from their reddening cheek areas.
Frank and I could legitimately be criticised for not teaching the Twinset to
write at home after school. My view is that children go to school to learn, and
while I’ve always been prepared to help with homework, I am a bad parent and
not a teacher. If I am expected to teach my children, then their teachers can
come to my office and do some filing. Just saying.
During the course of this academic
year I have formed the view that we do not always get what we pay for, and
concluded that the Little Darlings are likely to be better off in a good state
school than a mediocre private one. With this in mind I took the Boychild to
visit our local state school late last year and he was staggered by the options
and facilities on offer, particularly in sport: a sports hall; tennis courts;
and rugby and football pitches. One look around the woodwork and metalwork
rooms and he was asking where his signature is required.
The Twinset are divided. After
their visit Kate concluded that it would be like attending Waterloo Road, the
maths teacher made her laugh rather than cry, and would move tomorrow if beaucracy
were not an issue. Her motives may not be based on securing the best education
available because high on her list of wishes ticked off were the fact that she
could wear trousers and would not have to tie her hair back. Still, I took that
as a victory. Eve on the other hand had to be dragged, literally, huffing and
puffing just to look around. She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly at
approximately seven second intervals. Since then she’s been using every weapon
in her armoury to persuade me not to send her there. I have been on the wrong
end of emotional blackmail bullshit that “this wouldn’t be happening on dad’s
watch.” She’s learning what a hard bastard I’ve become since dad’s watch prematurely
concluded, but she doesn’t like it and I’m ruining her life. The fact that I
ruin her life when I won’t let her watch Eastenders because it’s mindless drivel
and clashes with Chanel Four news which I am compelled to watch on account of
it makes me feel superior to most of my clients, means that this particular
attempt to pull at my threadbare heartstrings has, to date, failed.
I don’t intend to cause her
needless unhappiness, but, for fear of sounding like my own parents (which let’s
face it, all parents if they’re honest promise themselves they won’t but
nevertheless end up doing at some point),
I know she would be better off there. I also appreciate that adjustment will be
tough, and I will be on hand to provide as many hugs and chocolate brownies as
she can stomach, probably considerably more of the latter. I’m also prepared to
act as a punch-bag if this helps.
This is the hardest thing that I’ve
embarked upon since Frank died. The bastard bank, HMRC, Sky and BT have made my
blood boil, but I don’t recall losing any sleep over it – possibly because at
the time I was medicating with repeated doses of Sauvignon Blanc. The grim
reality of making life changing decisions for the Little Darlings as a
reluctant single parent – I’m struggling to remain cliché-free (Luke) – really can
be pants: an XXL sized, over-worn and under-washed pair at that.
Having looked around a number of state schools in the area I am in no doubt that the buildings and the facilities are far superior to those of the numerous private schools in the area. So why is it the results of said state schools are so bloody mediocre and the children are so bloody lacking in basic manners and social skills? We concluded that although the facilities are superior at the local state schools by paying for our son to attend a mediocre private school with shitty buildings and crappy facilities we have ended up with a more rounded, well mannered child with a much better work ethic and higher aspirations! Bizzare but true. He'll be attending Exeter College for his next level of education which will be a bit of a culture shock but good for his soul!
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