Fully clothed

Oliver has come home not just with his own luggage, but with a bag of clothes outgrown by Prime Minister To Be, who is broader and taller than Oliver.

Tempted as I was to save them and auction them off when their previous owner fulfils his potential, of course I didn’t. I shoved them through the washing machine.

This was not because they were dirty, but because Oliver, who can be as Asperger’s Syndrome as all the rest of the family when he puts his mind to it, will not wear clothes that do not smell of home, or that have any of the labels still in them. Before anything can be added to his drawers, it must be laundered in the correctly-scented washing powder, and all labels, including the washing instructions, carefully snipped out.

We all like our clothes to be label-free. Mark has made some awful holes in his shirts, tearing out itchy labels in desperate moments. This is tiresome when it comes to remembering what size we all are or whether something needs dry cleaning or not.

There were trousers, and a couple of jerseys, and lots and lots of beautiful T-shirts, in a rainbow of colours. There were more than we own between all of us at the moment, and will keep Oliver, and Ritalin Boy, and probably the family of children in the alley at the back of the house as well, respectably clothed for months and months to come.

I could not have been more pleased. The clothes filled the washing lines, used all of the clothes pegs, and there were still some left to fill the rack in the living room. Oliver will go on to Gordonstoun looking convincingly middle-class and I will be able to hold my head up when I visit him.

Only Matron and I will know about the crossed-out name in the back of the collar.

I was so pleased at this development that I did something I have been putting off.

I measured Oliver and rang the school uniform shop at Gordonstoun.

He is going to need a completely new uniform, and I have been quietly procrastinating about it, mostly for financial reasons. This is because it is not the first time I have had to purchase a whole new school uniform, and Mark’s credit card was wincing and hiding in the corner of his wallet in anticipation.

Almost nothing that he had at Aysgarth will be usable in Scotland. Even the trousers and shirts are different. Instead of tweeds they have black jackets and blue blazers, and they have got two uniforms, an everyday one and a smart one for Chapel on Sunday and for being seen in public on his best behaviour.

I have got some clothes like that.

The lady in the uniform shop was very nice indeed, although thought that they did not have anything that would be small enough for Oliver. I said that this was a Good Thing, because I wanted him to grow into things. She told me that she bought her own son a new set of uniform and he grew four inches before Christmas, so she had to buy a whole new set.

School uniform is not at all cheap. We both shuddered.

I will not tell you here how much it is going to cost, but when I told Mark he went a little pale and decided that we would not have a night off this week after all.

I have bought taxis for less.

They don’t want the cash until next week so we have got a few days grace.

Fortunately we have got bedding and towels coming out of our ears, so there will not be a problem there, and Oliver is quite happy to keep using his old duvet covers, even though new children usually have new ones. He likes flannelette bedclothes, and his duvet cover has a picture of a mummy and daddy penguin with a treasured chick, which used to make him cry when he was little and homesick.

I am starting to pack this sort of thing into his bags for his new school. It is a very odd feeling.

The picture shows half of our back yard today.

The other half looked much the same.