It is the weekend, and I am writing from the hallowed portals of the taxi rank, where I shall be comfortably situated with my book and my flask of tea until sunrise.
I have managed to fully occupy my day as usual, starting off with the daily agony of trying to run up the fellside. It was not nice this morning. My legs hurt and I felt very sorry for myself. I pretended several times that I was stopping to breathe in the glorious fragrance of the hawthorn blossom and to listen to the birdsong, but I wasn’t really. Actually I was stopping because somehow I couldn’t manage to expand my lungs far enough to admit the quantity of oxygen that I needed, and also because my calf muscles had become solid lumps of burning rigidity.
I might have a day off tomorrow.
After the run I turned my attention to the emerald-green spinach curry that I have accidentally made for Mark’s dinners. I cooked a large pan of saffron rice, without the saffron because it is too expensive. He won’t know the difference between that and turmeric, and in any case it all went green anyway when I mixed it in with the curry and wrapped it up to put in the freezer. I tried a bit. It tastes all right, if unusual, he probably won’t notice.
Whilst I was thus occupied the post arrived, and in amongst the catalogues for expensive clothes made out of hessian, and the letters from lunatics offering me a credit card, there was a letter from Gordonstoun.
It was inviting our son and heir to visit them in August again, for a three day festivity involving various character-building activities.
They explained that he would need to arrive at nine o’ clock on the Friday morning in order to attend an interview to determine whether or not he might be suitable for a scholarship.
This has been a topic of much discussion over the last weeks in our house.
Oliver is a dear little boy, but not an academic genius.
This does not seem to matter. Gordonstoun has built its reputation on prizing decency, determination and courage above everything else. If they think that Oliver has these qualities and is a generally good all-round performer, then they will give him a Good Egg Scholarship and it won’t matter that he was chucked out of Latin.
It would be brilliant if he can do this.
As you know we are not wealthy. We will apply for, and probably receive, a bursary.
A bursary is some cash handed out from the school funds to pay the fees of children whose parents do not have access to untold millions.
The thing about a bursary is that it is means-tested. The school decides how much cash you need to eke out your survival, and then they take the rest of your income in school fees. They assess you again every year. If they decide that need two thousand pounds to live on, then you will have to pay everything over and above that towards the school fees, even if your income goes up. If your annual income is ten thousand pounds then they will take eight towards the school fees, if it shoots up to twenty then they will take eighteen.
This has always seemed to me to be fair enough. Years of scraping every last penny for their education has always seemed to have been worth every desperate moment, it has been the best thing we have ever done.
The thing about a scholarship is that it is fixed. It is not means tested. It is a generous donation towards the school fees of a worthy child.
If Oliver gets a scholarship, ridiculously, it could be worth thousands and thousands of pounds.
We have discussed this with him.
No pressure, Oliver, we said, but we will all starve to death if you don’t get a scholarship.
I had an email this morning from one of his teachers telling me that she has been startled by his focus and motivation, so it sounds as though he has taken this encouragement seriously.
I emailed the head asking if the school would help with his interview techniques. Given my employment record this is something with which I had better not try to be helpful. Regular readers might still remember the long-ago disaster at the undertakers.
I emailed Oliver and told him. Then I realised that the interview is on the August bank holiday weekend, so I emailed Lucy and told her to hurry up and pass her driving test, because of course we will be working, and somebody is going to need to take him to the outer edge of the civilised world.
My affairs then tidily sorted out, I went out to do some painting in the camper van and nurse my sore legs.
Have a picture of Roger Poopy waiting for me on our run.
