Tesco saves my school bacon...

Can I quietly scream? Will you mind? Nothing major; just a small strangled ‘aaaghhhhhh’.  Three small words, six meagre syllables that drive me demented. School freaking uniform.  

Get that hair on the left...

The return to school is looming into view and I keep gazing gloomily at the list.  Okay, so I get why schools feel the need to do the uniform thingy. I get that it’s all about ‘TEAM US’ (that’s ‘us’ as in ‘we’, not US as in the USA). I get the argument that it’s a leveler – that it stops arsey little brats coming in and doing the whole ‘I’m wearing Abercrombie/Superdry/Jack Wills/Versace/whatever and you, poor trailer trash scumbag, are wearing ‘George by Asda’ one-upmanship malarkey.  I get that it makes it easier to find and apportion blame when they torch a car or barge past people onto the bus or whatever.  I get it although, to be honest, I’m not entirely convinced.  But, hey, it is what it is and so on and so forth but, but, but…

…really, why do they have to make it so…arcane?  Why can’t they just say – ‘Look, chuck ‘em in grey trousers/skirts; white shirts; grey jumpers and let’s call it a day, guys.’?  Yeah?  No.

It’s always got to be the ‘right kind’ of grey.  The navy jumper has to have the blasted logo on it, doesn’t it?  And then…I shouldn’t have started, should I? Get this… For the last two years (years 7 and 8) James’ school hasn’t prescribed a blazer.  There was some kind of weird optional coat that they all point-blank refused to wear (didn’t remotely blame them, it was seriously minging), so he ended up getting on the school bus each day, even in the depths of winter, even in driving rain, wearing just a skimpy jersey. Mad.  This year (to compensate maybe?) it appears they require TWO blazers. One for everyday wear and one for ‘smart stuff’.  What smart stuff?  Come to think of it, let’s not think about it cos it’s bound to involve more cash.  Oh just…aaaghhh. 

And they’ve changed the sports kit – again.  WHY?  What was wrong with the old one? They’re a school, for heaven’s sake, not a football club. 

It could be worse – some boy we used to know had to wear flipping lederhosen to school – in London.  And again, I ask you…why?  Character-building? 

I suppose nothing has really changed.  When I was at school – in an uber-strict state grammar, we had to wear freaking tartan skirts (yup, kilts - feel free to laugh) and a particular blue open-necked shirt that could only be bought from one particular shop in, of all places, Twickenham. I can remember the look of horror on my poor mother’s face even now as she scanned the seemingly endless list. A boater?  A BOATER?  Thank feck I didn’t get one – only two girls wore them on the first day and they both managed to slide them quietly into a ditch by 9am.

Anyhow. Thank heavens for the kind PRs at Tesco Back to School who must have been reading my anguished mind as they sent an email asking if I’d like some school kit for James.  Er…YESSSS!  For freak’s sake, send it over and send it over fast.  Before my credit card reports me to CreditLine for severe emotional abuse. So they did, bless them.

Tesco Back to School gear...

I used to buy James’ school stuff (the generic trousers and shirts and all – the bits that don’t have to have badges and stripes and logos) from Marks and Spencer but, really, these are every bit as good (if not better actually - cos, I don't know about you but strikes me Marks ain't what it used to be - the last few pairs of pants I've had have just sort of collapsed - and, no, they weren't put under any particular strain) and a fair bit cheaper.  I thought he might go all teenage sniffy on me over the shoes (which are a SERIOUS bargain).  

The last couple of years he has refused to go the usual Clark’s children’s route and has resolutely bought from the men’s department.  But, to my total surprise, he deemed the lace-ups ‘fine’.  The coat met with a curl of the lip but that was just fine and dandy as I simply nabbed it for myself.  Socks, pants, trousers, shirts and really nice bright red polo shirts all met with teenage approval – the polo shirts so much that he’s already wearing them – yeah, by choice, in the holidays, in public.  And at least these won’t fall apart the way the rip-off Ralph Lauren ones from Turkey did. 

So. Seriously. Take a look.  And thank you, Tesco.  And…School...just don’t talk to me, alright? 

The Dungeon of Degradation

Rachel and I had rather hoped to see something wild and exciting on our night out (maybe some wild seething and writhing) but, this being Exmoor, our choices were limited and we’d had to settle for The King’s Speech (good in a sensible worthy BBC kind of way). Absolutely no writhing; not even a miniscule seethe.

‘That popcorn,’ said Rachel, as we drew up at the pub. ‘Tell me it wasn’t your supper?’

I shrugged ruefully.

‘Still living on free cereal?’

‘Yup.’
‘That sucks.’
‘Actually, talking of sucking, we did get some echinacea lollipops. They made a change.’

A large Alsatian barred the entrance to the pub but if it were meant to be intimidating, it failed dismally. Rachel has the largest dog you can get before they morph into ponies while it’s only small dogs that intimidate me. We fussed it and walked in.

‘It’s getting ridiculous, this money business,’ said Rachel as we huddled by the fire. I nodded gloomily and stuck my straw in our shared mineral water.
‘There must be a way we can make money.’
‘Well, the Man Pets didn’t work.’

‘Limited appeal. Dog breeding?’
Her puppy is called Beatrice – the SP’s real name is Dante. Rachel thought it was the obvious love match, despite the extreme difference in size.
‘The SP is a dog of great ingenuity – he’d find a way.’
‘Not without testicles he wouldn’t,’ she countered. ‘You were precipitate.’
I couldn’t argue that one. ‘Well, it would have cheapened their relationship anyhow. It’s a beautiful, spiritual thing.’

‘Whatever. So that’s out. You’ve tried self-help books; I’ve tried websites and welly socks. You refused to countenance children’s parties [I did]; I can’t face accountancy. We need to think outside the box.’ She stroked the Alsatian absent-mindedly then grabbed his thick studded collar.

‘Got it!’ she said, rather too loudly, making the poor dog jump. ‘That's it! We set up a dungeon.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Oh don’t play the innocent. You went to bondage clubs in London.’
‘Only because my gay male best friend dragged me along cos he was too scared to go alone.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, okay, I did like my silver rubber dress and the spiky heels. And the people were very funny - and rather sweet.’
‘There you go. I’ve got these friends who live outside London and they’ve got a dungeon and they make a killing from it. We’ve got barns.... Or, maybe it would be better in town. Hmm, you’ve got the Haunted Cellar...’
‘What? The one with the ghost?’
‘No,’ she shook her head in irritation. ‘It's no good. Not because of the ghost.  The ceiling’s too low and it wouldn’t take the load.’

Rachel did engineering at university; I could see calculations flitting through her head.
‘But, hey, you have got the perfect room actually...’
‘Perfect for what?’
‘Stringing them up.’
‘WHAT? The Oak Room?’
‘Exactly. Of course James would have to be boarding and you’d need to call Adrian down for the actual stringing up bit.’

I now had this image of plump middle-aged men in latex dangling from the Oak Room rafters, like a series of mournful bats.

She had the bit between her teeth, so to speak. ‘Adrian would have to wear lederhosen of course.’
I snorted into the mineral water. Not just at the image of my husband in leather shorts but at the idea of him calmly wandering down from his study and doing a casual bit of winching, while I put on the kettle. ‘Tea, dear?’

‘What’s the etiquette though?’ I was getting quite intrigued now. ‘I mean, would you meet them at the door in character or would you be all polite and “D'you fancy a scone?” first?’
‘Damn, I don’t know. We need to do research. And we need a name.’
‘Hmmm. “The Dulverton Dungeon for Discriminating Degradation” – it has a ring.’
‘Through its....’
‘...enough!’

More gales of laughter and we suddenly realised the pub had gone very quiet. Startled stares surrounded us. The Alsatian sat with its tail firmly between its legs. If it could have removed its collar, I think it would.


PS - since discussing the finer points of this on Twitter with People Who Know, we have decided against the plan.  Who knew?  Honestly, who knew?