Diary – 16 November 2017

Long letter from the High Mistress of St Paul’s Girls’ School, addressing me as ‘Dear Old Paulina’ (I thought we were never ‘Old Paulinas’, merely ‘Paulinas’ till the bitter end, but I will let the solecism pass). It informs me that fellow former pupils have been in touch to report sexual abuse when I was there ‘between the 1970s and the 1990s’. The letter invites #metoo to name and shame teachers — who must be well into their dotage if not dead — while insisting that the numera una assoluta girls’ school in the world is now a sterile, predator-free zone. The letter is spattered with every compulsory clunky current buzzword and phrase, such as ‘safe, intellectually-stimulating and challenging environment’… ‘safeguarding is not confined to school hours’… ‘we have a whistleblowing policy’ and on and on. This world of ‘appropriate’ and ‘compliance inspections’ is a far cry from my happy school days in the 1980s when girls in the grip of uncontrollable pashes used to flit across Brook Green after dark in their nighties to shade like cats into each others’ bedrooms, and there were only three rules: no high heels on the marble, no jeans, and no smoking on school grounds. O tempora, etc!

Thinking of my school days brought back bittersweet memories of my English teacher Miss Gough (she also made it to High Mistress), whom I worshipped, but appeared immune to my charms. When I bumped into her with her female partner in the street just after I’d published my first book (it was a diary as it happens) I was filled with pride. I waited for her to congratulate me. ‘When are you going to write a proper book, Rachel?’ was all she said about it, before dilating on the superior qualities of another Paulina.