In the end I spent much of today asleep.
I spent a great deal of the rest of it doing washing, of which there was a lot.
It is nice to be at home with everybody again.
We did not see much of Oliver, who has attired himself in his underwear and dressing gown, and retired to his bedroom with his Playstation.
He emerged briefly when summoned this afternoon, for a family conference. He told Mark and Lucy what little he could remember of his weekend, and I asked him gravely if, after another weekend’s boarding there, he was now absolutely and finally certain that his future lay at Gordonstoun.
We reminded him that senior government positions, Whitehall mandarins and Army chiefs of staff tend to be the fruits of Eton and Harrow and Charterhouse and Christ’s Hospital, where some of his friends are heading. These are the institutions rearing youths to take the driving seats in the high-speed steamrollers of power.
Gordonstoun is not doing this.
Gordonstoun, as we succinctly put it, is producing lone nutters.
Our Everest climbers, our lone yachtsmen, our skiers from the top of Ben Nevis are ex Gordonstounians. Olympic riders and swimmers come from Gordonstoun. It is, in fact, not producing brilliantly civilised sophisticates, the calculating and the suave. Gordonstoun is turning out daring adventurers, the reckless and the bold.
One of the cave divers in the recent Thai rescues came from Gordonstoun.
Prince William, with all his smooth charm and easy good manners, comes from Eton. Prince Philip, the enthusiastic penniless Greek, who charmed a princess and races carriages, and says rude words to journalists, is from Gordonstoun.
Which, we wondered, would Oliver like to be.
It is not too late, I suggested. If he wanted a change of direction, his Common Entrance results would probably be good enough, we could point him elsewhere, to a warm public school with golden stone arches spanning the gateways to the corridors of power.
Which would it be?
Oliver, to his credit, thought hard, because he understood the choice that he was making.
No, he said, eventually. It was Gordonstoun every time. Being a lone nutter sounded just fine to him. He would learn to dig a hole in the snow in which he could sleep, to leap from the cutter into the icy sea, and to trek up to the misty summit of forbidding mountains. He would not complain, and he would find out what more was in him.
I have to say that I was entirely relieved about this. I would not at all have liked to have had to start the whole process again. The die, thank goodness, have been cast, and his road is set. I shall start putting all of our paperwork together for it next week.
Lucy shuddered and said that she was jolly glad that her school was not like that. She is fond of weekend breakfasts in her pyjamas followed by some shopping in York and a film before bed.
On a Sunday at Gordonstoun they can lie in bed until eight o’ clock before getting up for Chapel and some exercise.
I couldn’t help but secretly agree with Lucy. I am glad that nobody is trying to send me there.
Mark is the envious one. He likes adventures and does not mind if there is nowhere to plug in the hairdryer.
We thought later on how brilliant it has all been. The children’s schools have been a formative experience for us as well as them, leading us along some very interesting byways of life.
I like Gordonstoun a lot. It has been a splendid weekend. Everybody has tried really hard to make us feel at home. I have drunk whisky and wine and Pimms and eaten far too much. Oliver has come home happy and exhausted.
I am very glad indeed that he is sure that he wants to go.
