I have had a day in the office.
Most of it was spent doing my tax return, about which I am very proud although not terribly optimistic, because it all seemed to happen ridiculously easily and therefore I am quite sure that I have forgotten something crucial. In fact, sitting here telling you about it I have just realised that I have indeed forgotten something crucial, I have forgotten to include my cash earnings, so it will be back to the drawing board tomorrow.
By way of an occasional distraction I have also been approaching public schools making tentative enquiries on behalf of my son, who is going to need one when he is thirteen.
This is still some time off but we have been told again and again by the worldly-wise Headmaster of his prep school that we need to be looking hard at the issue now and thus coming up with the school most perfectly suited to the individual needs of our boy. I think he probably means one that we can afford and that will deign to listen to our hopeless pleas for them to accept him.
“What is he good at?” enquired the kindly lady at Merchiston Castle, which is a splendid boys-own heroic establishment in Edinburgh.
I thought hard but couldn’t come up with anything.
“He’s quite nice,” I offered.
“Hmm,” she said, “what about rugby, or maybe cricket?”
He wasn’t. Nor music, nor art, nor actually anything that I could think of, apart from being able to write with both hands at once although in different directions, starting in the middle and working outwards. Not exactly a talent as such, but I am quite sure I couldn’t do it.
The lady optimistically assured me that there was plenty of time until Common Entrance, and that she was sure he would develop a talent of some description by then, and promised she would pop a prospectus in the post.
Sherborne was equally kindly, but not quite as optimistic. He would need to pass all their exams and assessments and interviews and get a good report from his prep school, as well as getting 55% at Common Entrance and have parents with a massive salary who also happen to have time to drive him to and from Dorset every three weeks.
I have put his Lego in the post to him but do not think he should have time to do it, he should be far too busy learning spellings and practising rugby and turning himself into somebody who will potentially scrape through Common Entrance or at the very least get a good report from the PE teacher.
I can never actually bring myself to talk to the PE teacher, actually, because I had the PE teacher’s best friend in the taxi some time back, who entertained me with the most interesting stories about their youth at Sedbergh and subsequent rascally carryings on, and I am terrified that I might accidentally smirk and let slip some tactless best-man related remark, in Basil Fawlty don’t-mention-the-war style: so I just walk past his desk at Parents’ Evening and pretend I don’t mind that my son has never even made it as far as the rugby B Team.
The thing is that there just aren’t all that many all-boys schools around any more. This pleases Oliver, who likes the idea of girls very much. He was very disgruntled to find that we are planning on single-sex senior education as well, and complained that he was never going to find anybody to marry at this rate.
We pointed out that the whole idea of a single sex school was exactly not thinking about people who might be good to marry but about science and Latin and geography. Mark seems to know a very great deal about this, which makes me think he may have spent the greater part of his own school years distracted in one way or another.
We will have to hope that one of the few remaining all male establishments is feeling generous and needs to balance their intake of academic and sporting geniuses with a few talentless nice boys to make the others stand out. Otherwise we will have to assume that he will no longer be concentrating entirely on the pursuit of cricket balls and all hopes of academic glory will be at an end for ever.
I suppose there’s still plenty of time.
