This article is taken from the October 2024 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

Had dinner with my friend Sophie last night, who kept going on about some flyer that one of the big West London private schools had pushed through her door, advertising bursaries, a bit like those bloody cards from Savills.

She lives in Kilburn, so the school is presumably stuffing these flyers indiscriminately into every average looking terrace — but she was clearly taking it as “a sign” that her ten-year-old Wilf should apply.

Wilf is currently at some state primary you have to live opposite to get into, where they make a big deal of not setting homework. Even madder, her husband Alex is convinced it’s a Big Brother situation and that the school must “know” that they have a child of Year Six age on the premises, probably via AI. Which is apparently also out to steal his job.

I mentioned all the schools panicking about VAT and needing extra clientele, but Sophie was still taking it as some kind of compliment and wanted to discuss Wilf’s bursary potential in detail.

Resisted pointing out to her that I’d be gutted to discover my house was clearly screaming “SOS”.

Then she went all sanctimonious about the fact that the school is apparently keen for “children of key workers” and how this could really work in Wilf’s favour.

Sophie looked twitchy and began interrogating me on what exactly is served

All because Alex does something vaguely journalistic, which they used to get out of home schooling during Covid. Resisted comment.

Also didn’t bring up the questionable ethics of Sophie claiming a means-tested bursary when her parents are meant to be paying her kids’ secondary school fees anyway, when the time comes. Which took superhuman level of restraint.

Instead, I sat through her scanning the QR code on the flyer (she was so thrilled by it she’d brought it along to dinner) and discovering that the school would have to conduct annual home visits, and HMRC-level investigations into family finances, to maintain reduced fees.

At which point I made a flippant comment about the rising cost of Breakfast Club fees in North London (going rate is 12 quid per day), and Sophie looked twitchy and began interrogating me on what exactly is served each morning, and whether the porridge is made on site.

Turns out I had hit a nerve — she has been begging Wilf’s school to stop serving Cheerios at Breakfast Club for months, and been campaigning for Marmite as an alternative to Hartley’s jam, which she described as “basically poison”.

The school refused on the grounds that Marmite posed a yeast allergy risk — enraging Sophie. “But they already serve toast! Do they think I’m an idiot?”

She’s convinced their refusal was actually a cost issue and offered to fund industrial quantities of Marmite, to no avail. Didn’t have the heart to explain that she would be expected to donate much more than Marmite if Wilf got the bursary.

All made me feel weirdly relieved that I’m not desperately trying to prove our poverty — not that Hector or Minnie would have a hope in hell of getting a bursary. Or Lyra, who would screw up the interview by not smiling (yes, I’m still not over the St Paul’s rejection).

In other news, Minnie’s school can’t stop sending me “codes of conduct”. I’ve now had a code of conduct for how to watch a sports match (don’t swear), a music recital (don’t yawn), a play (clap for whole cast, not just your child) and parents’ evening.

Which should have said “don’t wear full make up and heels”, but instead was something about respecting other parents’ time slots. As if.