Newsflash! Hear ye, hear ye! A permanent head teacher has now been found for Steyning Grammar School!
This update may not be relevant or interesting to the majority of my small collection of readers, but the process by which the new head was selected might just tickle you. For lo and behold, of all the children in the whole massive school, guess who got to be on the interview panel?
That’d be Boy Seymour, of course.
The child has been at the school for a mere matter of weeks. He isn’t particularly imposing or an obvious genius. Despite my efforts, he is never the smartest kid on campus (he’s already ripped his blazer), but somehow, there he was, ensconced in luxury at upper school on the day of the interviews, surrounded by an all-you-can-eat buffet, in a perceived position of power and no doubt feeling like The Almighty.
I’m very proud of course. I was so desperate that he shouldn’t miss out on this opportunity that when the bus encountered a large puddle on INTERVIEW DAY and looked like it might not get to school, I raced to the rescue in the Discovery, and drove Boy and his sisters to school, fording small rivers as we went. I felt like I was in the ‘A’ Team – until we realised we were following the bus which was by now making it just fine on the alternative route I’d also chosen. There were some laughs as my three cosseted kids alighted the Disco and rejoined their bus mates for the short walk into school – but I just had to make sure that Boy was there to interview those candidates. He was vital to the selection process, I am 100% certain.
So what could be the reason why Boy Seymour was given this responsibility? Admittedly, he wasn’t alone. There were also a few pupils from the upper years involved. But of all those new little Year Sevens, why my son?
At home, he can be opinionated, pompous, bossy and volatile. He drives Number One insane, annoys Number Two no end and willicks the mini one up. He tends to do as he pleases when he pleases, and simply cannot understand why I might be asking him to do something else. He knows best. We clash. On our beach holiday, he thinks he can take on the sea. He believes he is stronger than it. Out and about, he will not accept that he, a child, may be vulnerable to danger. He likes to be in control.
Part of me worries about this – will he be a gentle man? A patient man? What kind of man might he be?
And then I remember all the wonderful things about him. He is compassionate, forgiving, loving, intelligent and hard-working. He oozes empathy and sensitivity. He is confident, communicative and kind. He owns his mistakes and understands that adults can make mistakes, too. He will admit if he’s wrong (eventually), and he will always do as he is told in the end.
When Boy started Big School, I told him that he needed to be polite – to the teachers especially. Little else really matters. Speak up, ask questions, let them know who you are. He has certainly done that, and a few behaviour points aside (“They weren’t my fault, honest!”), he has really impressed me with his start at Steyning Grammar.
He has big shoes to fill. Number One is working her socks off for her A Levels, and Number Two is slowly settling in to a post-Covid school normal, racking up the merit points. (She got one in every lesson on Friday!) She has even conceded that sitting at your desk and doing homework is actually quite satisfying. Hoorah!
I am pleased that the newly appointed head teacher did actually make it onto Boy’s shortlist at interview. That’s a good sign. He clearly stood out. But to be honest, I’m amazed Boy noticed anything other than the plethora of free food at his disposal that day. That was all he could talk about when he returned home, and even brought several colourful macaroon samples home with him; I say samples, as the macaroons were not intact. Nor complete. But it was a nice gesture.
We will have to wait until April, I think, for a Mr Whitehead to take the helm at school. Hopefully by then, he will remember my son fondly. After all, one cannot underestimate this eleven year-old’s influence in his appointment. I’m sure it was huge. (!) But what I hope most of all is that this experience taught my boy that his voice counts, and that he is a key player in the world he inhabits. Something tells me he knows this already, but on those days when his wobbly legs bring him down, he might need a little reminding.
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