Skip to main content

It is entirely possible that I am going straight to hell

Had a shitty week this week.

It started with a letter arriving in the post. A normal, white envelope, like, so what? But this was no ordinary envelope, for it contained the key to freedom, the end of scrimping and saving to pay expensive private daycare fees, the answer to having to take two children to different schools at different ends of the borough every day of the week, a means for the girls to spend more time together - oh yes, this letter had been eagerly awaited for a while.

This oh-so-important letter was from Firstborn's school in response to our application to get the Small(er) One into the nursery class at the same esteemed (and free state school) establishment. We were reasonably confident about it because we fulfil the top three criteria to get in - practicing Catholics in the parish, live in the area, and last but not least, Firstborn is already there and they have a sibling priority policy.

BUT THE SMALL(ER) ONE WAS REJECTED!

Yes, rejected, the utter tossing @*?$!!!, on a small bloody technicality that quite frankly was a load of ..... etc

I won't go into the details because frankly it would bore you rigid, but let's leave it at this: the reason for the rejection was not in line with the addmission criteria, and I'm sure that you'll agree that if you set rules for entry you are obliged to stick to them and not change them halfway through the game.

So, basically it seems to me (and I may be wrong, Alpha says I am wallowing in a pit of conspiracy theory-driven paranoia) the Small(er) One is a victim of a spot of grubby religious politics possibly due to the fact that I haven't had the presence of mind (or the shame on my soul) of sucking up to the school priest and throwing a £20 note in the collection box every Sunday - we go to a different church from the one associated with the school you see, which obviously makes us an inferior grade on the Catholic scale (although I would like to point out here that whatever church you go to, beyond that it is Catholic and in the parish, is NOT a point on the admission criteria). So more fool me, huh?

(A little part of me wonders if the Funkin' Bar Stewards incident -see previous post- might have anything to do with it - it is a very tight community after all...)

What really makes me very very cross indeed is that I know the kind of scullduggery and deceit that parents are prepared to drag themselves through in order to get their kids into this school (you wouldn't believe the levels of hypocricy but maybe that's a later whistleblower-themed post) and all I have ever been is honest.


It's a bloody disaster. More racing from here to there to get this child here and the other child there, another year of thousands of pounds of expense that we can ill-afford, and worse of all, another year of the girls not seeing each other for more than an hour or so per day before bed (daycare starts at 8pm and finishes at 6pm and then there's the 20 mins travel time, while school starts at 9am and finishes at 3.30pm - which basically means, home then eat then bed for the Small(er) One, not a huge amount of fun for a nearly-three-year-old).

But what really pisses me off is the opening line of "I know you will be very disappointed" and the last "You have no right of appeal". Yeah right, we'll see about that.

Watch this space.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...