and sister were waiting for me in the kitchen with a glass of what my mum called ‘lady medicine’.
‘Darling, we are crossing Outlandishly Handsome Men off our list. Beautiful men always leave you. Of course, an ugly man may leave you too, but … who cares?’ my mother chortled, topping up Phoebe’s Sauvignon blanc.
‘Having a drop-dead gorgeous toyboy on your arm merely distracts from your designer handbag’ was my sister’s verdict. ‘Why not opt for an older man?’
‘Oh yes,’ my mother enthused. ‘Older, uglier men are just so damn grateful.’
Octavian had left me feeling a little genitally gun-shy, so for the next eight months or so I declined my family’s matchmaking machinations. After turning down Phoebe’s tenth invitation, she regarded me with an expression of bemused sadness. ‘If you don’t get a date soon, we’re going to organize a telethon to help you,’ she warned.
There was a good chance I’d have remained in romance rehab if I hadn’t been summoned to Merlin’s headmaster’s office. When I rushed in, late, having slipped out of my own school during a frantic lunch hour, Merlin’s smile came out like the sun. The headmaster, who’d only been at the school for about a month, made his sombre Stonehenge face and steepled his hands. He seemed to have some kind of AstroTurf glued to his head. Perhaps he was planning a game of miniature golf for pygmies up there? I tried not to stare at his hair transplant as he droned on about Merlin’s disruptive behaviour, absenteeism, pathetically low grades in his Key Stage 2 plus exams and lost homework.
I attempted to strike a chord of schoolteacher camaraderie. ‘Oh well. We all lose things. Especially we teachers. After all, we’re the ones who lost the square root of the hypotenuse. Otherwise, why are we always telling the kids to find it?’
Stonehenge refused to be mollified. ‘We know there’s an intelligence there. Which is what makes me think your son is just indolent. And an attention-seeker.’ His searing stare bored into me like a drill. ‘He put Mrs Crimpton’s shoes in the class bin today.’
Merlin’s smile had seeped away. His hands were fluttering in his lap like a trapped butterfly. Despite the overheated stuffiness of the room, he sat hunched into himself as if cold.
Screw teacherly comradeship. ‘He was probably just trying to get her attention, as he tends to sit in the back of the class all day, ignored. One thing is clear’ – I could hear my voice spiralling up into a peeved shriek – ‘if my son stays in your school much longer, the only good mark he’ll get will be in Copying Off the Exam of the Asian Kid Seated in Front of Him.’
In truth, I was more furious with myself than with the headmaster. Not getting Merlin into a special needs school meant that I’d officially forfeited my shot at Mother of the Year.
The headmaster gave me another scalding look. ‘Perhaps if Merlin had more constructive support from home …’
I pictured my nightly homework battles with my son. If only we could harness the steam that came out of his ears as he sweated over the incomprehensible comprehension we could power the whole of London. ‘It’s not that we don’t try. But Merlin’s got special needs.’
‘Yes … he
needs
to be in school more often! … ADD! Dyslexia! Asperger’s! Why do you parents insist on making excuses for your children? Your son’s not special. He’s just lazy and underachieving. Or, as we called it when I was a child,
naughty
.’
Merlin’s face crumpled like a paper bag. I wanted to swat the headmaster like a fly, but controlled myself. The last thing I needed was for my son to be suspended. If I took any more time off work I was pretty sure my own headmaster would suspend me too, possibly on a permanent basis. Being struck off by the General Teaching Council is not exactly a good career move for a single mother. And so I took a deep breath and smiled; the most genial parent
‘Darling, we are crossing Outlandishly Handsome Men off our list. Beautiful men always leave you. Of course, an ugly man may leave you too, but … who cares?’ my mother chortled, topping up Phoebe’s Sauvignon blanc.
‘Having a drop-dead gorgeous toyboy on your arm merely distracts from your designer handbag’ was my sister’s verdict. ‘Why not opt for an older man?’
‘Oh yes,’ my mother enthused. ‘Older, uglier men are just so damn grateful.’
Octavian had left me feeling a little genitally gun-shy, so for the next eight months or so I declined my family’s matchmaking machinations. After turning down Phoebe’s tenth invitation, she regarded me with an expression of bemused sadness. ‘If you don’t get a date soon, we’re going to organize a telethon to help you,’ she warned.
There was a good chance I’d have remained in romance rehab if I hadn’t been summoned to Merlin’s headmaster’s office. When I rushed in, late, having slipped out of my own school during a frantic lunch hour, Merlin’s smile came out like the sun. The headmaster, who’d only been at the school for about a month, made his sombre Stonehenge face and steepled his hands. He seemed to have some kind of AstroTurf glued to his head. Perhaps he was planning a game of miniature golf for pygmies up there? I tried not to stare at his hair transplant as he droned on about Merlin’s disruptive behaviour, absenteeism, pathetically low grades in his Key Stage 2 plus exams and lost homework.
I attempted to strike a chord of schoolteacher camaraderie. ‘Oh well. We all lose things. Especially we teachers. After all, we’re the ones who lost the square root of the hypotenuse. Otherwise, why are we always telling the kids to find it?’
Stonehenge refused to be mollified. ‘We know there’s an intelligence there. Which is what makes me think your son is just indolent. And an attention-seeker.’ His searing stare bored into me like a drill. ‘He put Mrs Crimpton’s shoes in the class bin today.’
Merlin’s smile had seeped away. His hands were fluttering in his lap like a trapped butterfly. Despite the overheated stuffiness of the room, he sat hunched into himself as if cold.
Screw teacherly comradeship. ‘He was probably just trying to get her attention, as he tends to sit in the back of the class all day, ignored. One thing is clear’ – I could hear my voice spiralling up into a peeved shriek – ‘if my son stays in your school much longer, the only good mark he’ll get will be in Copying Off the Exam of the Asian Kid Seated in Front of Him.’
In truth, I was more furious with myself than with the headmaster. Not getting Merlin into a special needs school meant that I’d officially forfeited my shot at Mother of the Year.
The headmaster gave me another scalding look. ‘Perhaps if Merlin had more constructive support from home …’
I pictured my nightly homework battles with my son. If only we could harness the steam that came out of his ears as he sweated over the incomprehensible comprehension we could power the whole of London. ‘It’s not that we don’t try. But Merlin’s got special needs.’
‘Yes … he
needs
to be in school more often! … ADD! Dyslexia! Asperger’s! Why do you parents insist on making excuses for your children? Your son’s not special. He’s just lazy and underachieving. Or, as we called it when I was a child,
naughty
.’
Merlin’s face crumpled like a paper bag. I wanted to swat the headmaster like a fly, but controlled myself. The last thing I needed was for my son to be suspended. If I took any more time off work I was pretty sure my own headmaster would suspend me too, possibly on a permanent basis. Being struck off by the General Teaching Council is not exactly a good career move for a single mother. And so I took a deep breath and smiled; the most genial parent
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