I am not working tonight.
I got myself in a complete flap taking Oliver back to school, and so I thought that I would come back home and drink instead.
I have drunk quite a bit, which is why this is a bit confused and lacks sophisticated polish. You are at liberty to read somebody else’s diaries if you think it is rubbish, and I will never know.
It might be rubbish. I have become unable to tell.
Oliver was not due back at school until this afternoon, and Mark had gone to work, so I spent the day pottering about doing mildly unexciting things, like sewing the last name labels into school clothes, after which I took the strimmer and cut the newly-established front lawn.
This has got all the silky-smooth finish of a recently-ploughed minefield. It would not be a good place to go for a walk in stiletto heels. It is not a very good place to go for a walk in flip-flops. The school groundsmen who do such amazing things with the cricket pitch have gone up hugely in my esteem. Having flat grass is more difficult than it looks.
In the end it was time to go. I flapped about a bit trying to make myself look respectable, without success, partly because of the grass clippings all over my trousers, but Oliver did not seem to mind, and we said goodbye to the dogs and the summer, and left.
It is only a couple of hours’ drive to school, and we talked all of the way there. Mostly I talked. Oliver listened for a while, and as we pulled off the motorway wondered anxiously whether or not he would manage to remember all of my advice, because there had been such a lot of it.
“There are no big ones any more,” he said, wonderingly, as we parked. “I’m them.”
We remembered how little and scared he had been when we had first taken him, and I pointed out that some people think that boarding school is not a nice thing to do to eight year olds. This made him laugh, and think that he would try and be very kind to the new boys, at least for the first week. After that he said that they are not scared any more and do things like dig holes in the cricket pitch and climb on the cannons. When Oliver was in the first year they were so naughty that the door was taken off the first form common room, so that they could be supervised at all times. This turned out to be a good idea, and the door was never replaced.
We called in at Matron’s school uniform shop for a new tweed jacket. I did not have any money, but she said kindly that she would put it on our bill, so I don’t need to worry about it until Christmas. The jacket is enormous, quite big enough for Oliver and Son Of Oligarch to wear at the same time if they want to, and should last him comfortably until he goes to university. She told Oliver to leave it in her sitting room so that she could sew the name label in it, for which I was profoundly grateful, hurrah for Matron, every family should have one to look after their sons.
We unpacked and then went to sit in the library for a quiet five minutes.
He promised that he would be good and virtuous and pass Common Entrance. This is not until June, but it is beginning to loom bleakly dark and huge in everybody’s headlights.
I left him to the madding crowd. He is too old to mind about this now, which is a relief, it was awful when it made him sad. He hugged me and bounced off excitedly to the barbecue that the school chef had constructed at the edge of the athletics pitch, and which was already coming under threat from some early informal cricket matches.
I went to listen to The Talk, which was a special arrangement for the parents of the fifth form. They have got new privileges, like sleeping in the attic and staying up late, because of being the oldest, and so had we, the headmaster had arranged wine and smoked salmon canapés to help us feel like proper grown ups.
We all appreciated this very much.
He reminded us of the glorious performance of last year’s fifth form, and we all eyed the long list of their names on the Scholarship Board, detailing the schools to which meritorious scholarships had been awarded. Eton appeared several times: then there was Harrow, which boasted the headmaster’s own son, Oundle, to which Actual Head Boy and Son of Oligarch are both aspiring, and lots of others.
We all made inner, unsustainable resolutions to restrict our sons’ unsuitable gaming activities in favour of increased holiday prep.
I sat next to The Honourable Somebody, whom I rather like, but which made me wish I’d changed my grass-clipping trousers. He told me afterwards that his son would be jolly lucky to get a pass at Common Entrance, never mind a scholarship.
The headmaster asked about Oliver’s scholarship endeavours over the glass of wine, and promised me that he would let me know if he heard anything. Gordonstoun tells parents if their child passes, as far as I know, but some schools don’t. Some regard it as being one of those Educational Things which is best kept away from the unwashed, and will only communicate with the prep school. Parents are not considered to have anything of value to contribute, apart from actual cash, obviously, and are kept out of the conversation.
I approve of that. I haven’t got anything sensible to say, which I proved during my brief discussion with the head.
I should really not drink when I am trying to look sophisticated.
I knew my nose had gone bright red. Sometimes it is obvious that I am not a trophy wife.
It is going to be a busy year, and shockingly final. Everything will change, all too soon.
I came home then, and drank too much.
Ah well.
