The Rogue Parent
A humorous view of playground politics from an independent school parent
Spring term 09
Without the support of parents, of course, independent schools could not exist. Bursars are now having to undergo charm offensives to keep them on board, as our Rogue Parent recently discovered
It was with gut-wrenching fear and a touch of guilt for not having paid as promptly as I should have, that I trudged up the stairs to the oak-lined hall leading to the bursar’s inner sanctum, following a summons from the Great Man himself.
Previous experience had led me to expect to feel thoroughly chastened and considerably lighter of pocket at the end of a brief (and usually vicious) visit. So it was disconcerting to find that I was greeted, if not exactly with open arms, but certainly a smile. Gone was the utilitarian visitor’s chair, which was used to discourage any lingering, which had been replaced with a comfy chintz-covered sofa. Tea and biscuits were offered. And as the GM eased himself beside me, my thoughts could not help jumping to images of Jemima Puddle-Duck being seduced by the roguish Mr Tod for her precious eggs.
In a surprising, genuinely sympathetic tone, the GM asked if I had any problems I would like to share of a delicate nature, or at least that’s what I thought he said, but after a moment of panic I realised he was asking about the family finances.
Huh?
Before I had much of a chance to say anything in reply, he had whipped out an array of documents for my perusal and was waxing lyrical about how the school appreciated how difficult it was in this day and age to balance one’s budget and still be able to go on the annual skiing holiday to Chamonix: but he said the school could help.
It transpires that the GM has secured a licence from the Office of Fair Trading to provide loans to parents, which can be secured on the family home. I was very nearly carried away by the GM’s enthusiasm and would have signed up on the spot, but luckily remembered that we were already hocked up to the eyeballs. Noticing my reticence, the GM then suggested a monthly payment option, with a hefty discount if I agreed to pay for future schooling in advance – as well as my outstanding bill.
Erm...
My bemusement must have been taken for reluctance, for the next thing I knew he was talking about how the school is considering offering after-school care for free next year, and that they have decided not to outsource the after-school clubs, so that they will be free as well. Then there is the revelation that the school is thinking about introducing a school bus and would I like to sign up?
By this time, I am thinking that there has to be a catch – and there is. These freebies and offers are only open to those parents who have more than one child signed up at the school. The GM assures me, with a wolfish smile, that my youngest boy is bound to qualify for many of the BOGOF offers the school is introducing, which includes a variety of items from the ever-increasing school uniform list and after-school activities such as ballet, needlework and flower-arranging.
I left the inner sanctum with an uneasy feeling that I had been ever so gently mugged. All I know is that both my sons are signed up for the foreseeable future, knitting classes thrown in, and I have the sneaking suspicion that I will have to seek out the deeds to the house for the privilege.
Winter term 09
Can anything be more bemusing than an eight-page report on a child who has yet to attain his sixth birthday? Our Rogue Parent vents her spleen on the impenetrable jargon used in school reports
There aren’t many subjects that my son is taking – and the majority of those are taught by the same teacher. However, those in charge seem to think there is plenty to say: the problem is, I don’t understand any of it. I mean, for heaven’s sake, what is a diagraph? And would you recognise it on a dark night?
I have a feeling that compiling school reports is an Ancient and Dark Art; for the writing of them seems more akin to the readings taken by the haruspex in Ancient Rome – and just as messy.
I picture the teachers confronted by a pile of blank pages upon which they must chart the progress or lack thereof of a six-year-old’s mathematical development.
I too might resort to the auspices for inspiration – or at least something so complicated in written form that scares the parents into submission or utter confusion.
Happy reading
I was thrilled, of course, to learn that the whole class covered addition with and without the use of concrete materials and that they have continued to look at addition and subtraction operations. Though why they needed to go to a building site to learn how to add up and take away is still beyond me: perhaps it was in preparation for building the new theatre, for which we have been “chugged” over the last year.
Suffice to say, after several hours’ deciphering the meaning behind the extremely long and technical words, I am far too frightened of showing my ignorance to my son’s form teacher to complain: a factor I am sure the school is relying on. It seems to me that the school regards reports as a necessary evil; a bit like the parents.
Behind the lines
But there is a growing attitude, I fear, in these uncertain economic times, that it is better to keep the parents happy and bung in as much Uriah Heep-like praise for their dear ones rather than expose the school to a threat of a parent withdrawing their child in a fit of pique; and the loss of school fees plus the extra work required for the registrar to fill the empty desk. This, I imagine, is no joke in the current economic climate.
While I may not completely understand what my son is doing, I get the gist that he’s doing it well and, while he’s doing it well, he might as well stay. But there is a bit in me that misses that old school mentality of calling a spade a spade – and doing it in plain English.
If my son had the final report that a friend of mine had on leaving a highly regarded school in the north, I would rest easy in the knowledge that he was surely on the road to greatness: “X is to be congratulated on having navigated his entire school career totally unencumbered by academic achievement.”
I suspect though that, for the parents, it was a case of lawyers at dawn!
Autumn term 08
I am shell-shocked, frazzled and am vowing never to return, but return I must virtually every term for the next ten years.
My eldest is going into Year One and must be suitably attired. Little boys (and girls) grow at an alarming rate and, with the current squeeze on the household budget, I have no choice but to go down the second-hand route.
Charming though the uniform may be, paying somewhere in the region of £295 for a blazer with two-toned ribbon braiding is a tad excessive. But I think of all the things that I find the most difficult to accept are the hats: the summer straw boater beggars belief. This, with its smart hand-woven silk ribbon, is for church on Sundays and Founders’ Day where, at the end of the speeches, the children, following some arcane tradition, throw them into the air. At a shade under £100, that is one expensive frisbee. Luckily the school runs a second-hand shop and it is from there that I have returned in such a state.
Elbows out
Never have I beheld such a sight. It was like a bombsite, with piles of grey shorts reaching almost to the ceiling. Heaps of navy blue boilersuits were laid out on trestle tables, with scavengers everywhere. A baby was crying ignored, as its mother frantically searched in a pile of dark trousers for a 28-inch waist. A mother pounced, pulling a wrinkled blazer from beneath a pile of art aprons only to find that it was firmly
gripped by another. For an instant they glared at each other. There was a sudden hush and it looked as though there was going to be an unholy catfight. However, whatever laws govern whom has seniority came into force and the Alpha Mum was soon in triumphant possession of it. It was a salutary lesson for booking in advance and arriving early.
The pickings before me were sparse and, even though the clothes had nametapes on them to identify whose they had been, some mothers hadn’t even bothered cleaning them first. Some clothes were so filthy that they didn’t look the right colour. One trouser pocket still had a snotty hanky in it, all dried and crusty.
Small pickings
After nearly two hours, I came away with two aertex shirts and a seriously faded but clean pair of grey shorts for the princely sum of £10 – and some invaluable advice from matron. “The best thing is to plan ahead,” she said. “Find a mum with a child a few years ahead of yours, make friends and then offer to buy all her old uniform. Choose a neat one, one who cares. You may need to go for two or three mums. Don’t just go for those wearing expensive clothes themselves or the ones driving smart cars as they are
frequently the worst. Their kids haven’t been taught to respect what they’ve got.”
In general, there is a sneaking suspicion that the powers that devise the uniform have a vested interest in making it all but impossible to forge. No trips to ASDA or Primark will suffice, even when it comes down to the white polo shirts. No, everything and I mean everything, has to have the school coat of arms on it, neatly embroidered.
The colour of the blue used for sports is virtually impossible to copy – I’ve tried – testified by my husband’s
shirts that are all now varying shades of blue, as are all our sheets, pillowcases and everything else. Thank God they didn’t opt for red...
Spring term 08
I have just come back from the secretary’s office, fuming at the injustice of it all. Thinking myself well organised and ahead of the game for once, I popped in to return the holiday sports club form. “I’m sorry, you’re too late – there’s no more room.”
“What do you mean ‘too late’? The form said to reply by Monday. It’s Thursday afternoon and you only sent them out yesterday!” I am given a pitying look and, before I can say anything more in my defence, she answers the telephone. I realise I am being summarily dismissed.
I flounce out of the office and, although I would dearly love to slam the door, I am prevented by the mechanism at the top of it. Mentally, I berate health and safety.
Normally I wouldn’t be worried by this setback. So what if my son can’t play football during the holidays... but it matters: trust me.
The rumour mill
The car park at picking-up time has been alive with rumours about the latest 11-year-old sporting prodigy at the school. He was spotted at a rugby match by a leading senior school’s sports master, who was acting as referee, and there and then the boy was offered a scholarship.
As the child was already accepted at another senior school, the father initially declined the place as he had already been offered a golden opportunity elsewhere.
To cut a long story short, the school he was meant to go to had offered the boy a partial sports scholarship, without even seeing him play, only for this latter to offer a full scholarship. It was, as they say, too good an offer to pass up – what a position to be in, especially in the light of the ever-growing credit crunch.
Standing pretty
How I had laughed at the increasing numbers of mothers dolled to the nines who had come to watch their little darlings at after-school sports club. I thought it was because everyone had heard that the new sports master, Mr French, was rather dishy and, more excitingly, was recently divorced. Now I realise that it was for far more sinister motives: to secure little Johnny a place on the holiday club list.
Those lucky enough to get into the holiday club will get the notice of Mr French, which will stand them in good stead for the rest of the year, and those with sporting prowess will no doubt be fast-tracked. For sport at school is not just about keeping fit and working as a team, it is about the kudos the top teams bring to the school and about the rewards that individuals can earn: those unwritten rules of life.
Loving parents
The more I learn about the system, the more I realise that it is a far cry from the civilised and polite environment I had always thought I was paying for. Getting ahead is not about money, it’s about being cut-throat, determined, even underhand. It was quite obvious that the word had spread about the holiday sports club and there had been a run on places, even before the rest of us were officially told.
Luckily, I have been given an even better tip-off. I have found out that if I want my son to get the best sports teachers in the school, he will have to secure a place in the Under-9s’ A or B teams by the time he’s eight, otherwise he’ll be taught by the gap-year student and have even less of a chance to succeed.
So I studied the Yellow Pages and frantically called up all the rugby and football clubs in the area, expecting them to laugh at my pretension.
But lo! They even have Under-6 training sessions and my boy is signed up for the next three years. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em...
Winter term 07
I’ve just seen the headmaster’s wife hurtle down the school drive in her new 4x4 with personalised number plates. I know it’s integral to the school’s re-branding and all part of the big push to put the place on the map, but isn’t that going a little far?
Everything is branded at the school from art aprons to sports bags, fleeces, hats, God knows what else. On the QT, all this branding has an ulterior motive. I’ve heard it’s done so everything looks neat when hanging up on pegs outside the classrooms. By looking blissfully regimented, prospective parents fail to notice that the 15-year-old prefab is sadly dated.
To be honest, when I looked round I hadn’t noticed that either, but it might have been because the open day tours were at break-neck speed – so we didn’t disturb the children at prep – and with a running commentary which brooked no interruptions.
Steady now
When one hapless prospective parent had the temerity to ask a question, he was met with a quelling look and frosty reply that left the rest of us huddling closer for safety and hurriedly swapping notes in case we were tested in the headmaster’s study on our return. Needless to say, I have not seen that parent at the school, so can only guess he was crossed off the list.
However, we did gain a place at the school and after an abortive trip to the second-hand shop, because the school saw fit to change key pieces of the uniform as part of its new branding campaign, I’ve gone back to the school outfitters to bedeck my five-year-old top to toe.
I maxed the credit card and waved goodbye to a new carpet in the front hall. I’ll just put a rug over it and no one will notice the bald patch...
Good feeling
There is a sort of feelgood factor about all this re-branding and it certainly seems to be getting the school noticed, especially at away matches. There is a new fleet of dark blue transits with the school’s logo in red emblazoned on the sides. Whenever they arrive at an away match destination, you notice the parents of the opposition teams whispering and looking on rather enviously – at least I hope that’s what they are doing. Even the games masters have been re-branded, which is good as now we can spot them in the melee of adults on the touchlines, shouting advice and tactics. I’m not sure how much they appreciate it as it leaves them exposed to personal injury from irate parents when the Third XI doesn’t do quite as well as expected.
Bandaged games masters aside, the pièce de résistance of the school’s “repositioning” are the plans to build the new theatre for the performing arts – with a bar.
The idea of having a quick snifter after the little darlings have squawked their way through Oliver! is very tempting. That’s until I heard the cost: some £1.5 million.
Through a glass darkly
Luckily, the headmaster saw fit to provide us all with alcoholic refreshment at the fundraising launch, either to numb the shock or to put us in a more receptive mood. I have yet to make up my mind. However, pressing his advantage on both counts, he then introduced us to the professional fundraiser who suggested we enjoy the tax advantages of gift-aiding a regular sum of money to the project.
She also, very sweetly I thought, mentioned that if we had any spare old masters they too could be bequeathed. My immediate thought was whether Mr Peel, my geography master, was still alive – and would it be legal? – before I realised that she’d prefer a small Monet or a little Picasso sketch. Of course! I’ll just check under my bed when I get home...