One of the most satisfying phrases in the English language is: ‘Sorry. I’m afraid I have to go to a parents’ evening.’
I love it because it’s such a perfect excuse for turning down dreary social engagements: you come across like someone who takes his parental responsibilities seriously but at the same time, if you use the right tone, as someone who’d much rather be doing whatever boring thing you’ve just been invited to, but you can’t, you simply can’t, because little Johnny and his teachers would never forgive you.
And I love it because parents’ evenings are one of the few events in the school calendar you can really enjoy. Unlike with plays or concerts, you don’t have to sit there for hours, alternating between boredom (at having to watch other people’s kids do their thing) and terror (that your child might fluff his lines or play a bum note).
Unlike with remembrance services you don’t have to be solemn. Unlike with sports days, no one gets to see how crap your car is or how basic your picnic. Unlike the rest of the time, you don’t have to be embarrassed about forgetting all the teachers’ or other parents’ names because the teachers are labelled for you at their desks and the parents wear badges with names on (usually their kids’, which isn’t perfect but does at least get you into the right ball park).
Also, they’re such brilliant occasions for people-watching. Here are some stereotypes I’ve encountered over the years. See how many of these are familiar.
Miss Squib
Wet primary school teacher. All you bloody want is to hear how well your child is doing. But she can’t or won’t tell you a) because she’s drippy and useless and b) it seems the rules in the state system forbid any form of grading or criticism. Instead, she shows you a form your child has filled in outlining his ‘goals’ for the year. They consist of crap like ‘writing more tidily’ and ‘listening more to other people in group discussions’.
Miss DeKlerk
Heavenly colonial. She’s usually Antipodean or South African and because she hails from a tradition where they haven’t quite fallen for all that dumbed-down, PC crap, she breaks all the state primary rules by talking knowledgeably and enthusiastically about stuff like times tables and grammar and how well your child is doing in spelling tests. You come away feeling smug and happy over the £5,000 a term you’re saving because she’s easily as good as you get in the private sector. Next year, unfortunately, your child’s class teacher is Miss Squib.
Miss Yummy
Mmmmm. Miss Yummy has the most darling, exquisite freckles on her sweet nose and a fetching blush to her cheeks and eyes like pools of — what? — molten dark chocolate infused with essence of wild rose, maybe, and lips so tender and pouty that you really must stop staring in case she notices. For some reason, the wife can’t stand her.
Mrs Push
Mrs Push is the mother of Quentin Push who is in the first XI, doing grade VIII piano and flugelhorn and is expected to get the top scholarship to Winchester. Like all the other mums who can afford not to work, she spends so much time at Quentin’s prep school watching matches, organising the organic fayre, etc that she knows all the staff members by name and hovers round them proprietorially at parents’ evening, making you — and your wife especially — feel like shit.
Barry Hedgefund
Barry is sleek, expensively dressed and is buggered if, what with the money he spent on the new sports hall and his time being so valuable, he is going to stick to the strict five minutes per pupil that has been allotted for each parent. As his time overruns and the parents whose slot it is now shuffle from foot to foot and make coughing noises, Barry leans forward more intently the better to concentrate on what the teacher is saying. Time slots are for the little people.
Jeremy Celebrity
Jeremy Celebrity is the most famous parent in the school but today he is just a parent like all the others. Except for the permanent rictus grin — designed simultaneously to reassure and ward off. All the other dads go to extravagant lengths not to make eye contact lest they give the impression that they are impressed.
Emily Blush
Emily’s headmaster has given her the job of ringing a little bell to mark the end of each five-minute slot which is, like, so totally embarrassing because it means that she’s standing in the same room as her parents and her teachers at the same time. Which is, like, so never meant to happen and she just wants to die. Later her dad tells her it could be worse. At Eton, you actually have to sit with your parents, listening together to what your teacher is saying. ‘Yeah,’ says Emily. ‘But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not at bloody stupid Eton. I’m a girl. Idiot!’
Ivo Fforde-fforde-d’eath
Because more than three generations of Fforde-fforde-d’eaths have been to ‘School’, their names are inscribed on the wall, which Ivo loves. Another great thing about having been at School is that on parents’ day while you’re hanging around in Bekynton, you get to see all your old schoolfriends and check out who has bagged the most rogerable wife.
James Embarrassment
James is here for three main reasons: to goad the lefty teachers; to encourage the sound teachers to restore his faith in the world by getting them to slag off the crap poetry gobbets in the English syllabus which are probably only there because the authors are black; and to embarrass his children. In the car home he gets ticked off by the wife for being so appallingly behaved. Job done, then.
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