GCSE Summers

GCSEs are well underway and Boy Seymour is… loving life!

Last night, in preparation for his Physics exam, he was “researching Michael Jackson” at 11.30pm. Coz that’s gonna help.

With two weeks to go until his exams are over, my little boy is growing like a weed and that little yellow-haired chap who wore red wellies and pirate t-shirts is about to leave school.

He has, until quite recently, been undecided about his next steps, and together we have considered engineering, physics, blacksmithing, criminology and music as subjects he might enjoy studying at college. His first interview at the local forge back in November got off to a rather frosty start as Boy misunderstood the mission; he sat there like Alan Sugar whilst forcing the poor blacksmith guy to pitch his wares. Mummy tried to bite her tongue but in the end had to prod Boy – interviews are a two way thing, he now realises. And when he understood that he was there for an informal chat, he was fine. He is good at those. Embarrassment minimised.

Prior to this, last September I took Boy down to Shoreham to look at the mechanics course there. I should not have been surprised by the forge fiasco that came after, because when he found out that the old cars in the Shoreham workshop were not for students’ actual use, the disdain on my son’s face was apparent. The deputy head of the college defended the decision in the interests of student safety, but Boy Seymour was demonstrably unimpressed as he stood by and listened, arms folded as he towered over the poor chap.

But over the last six months, my son has grown, both physically and emotionally. He seems to “get it” a bit more, and when we visited a different college the week before last to look at their mechanics course, apart from a minor cursing mishap upon parking, he had a very much more productive and mature interview experience. It was matter of fact, two-way, informative and businesslike interaction, after which my son said he really wanted to attend. Hoorah! He has been offered a place and we have accepted. He can even get there on a bus. He just needs to finish his exams, and then manage himself during his long, lazy, post-GCSE summer.

Yes, I am slightly worried about the long summer. Boy has developed a penchant for motorbikes and this is a scary prospect. It’s all very well pootling about the garden on his mini moto at the weekend when we are around, but how will I know what daredevil stunts he will be up to when he is left to his own devices? He has a bigger bike now, and he’s braver. He has a level of skill that makes him confident. This is bad news for an anxious me.

It’s a stark contrast to how I spent my post-GSCE summer, reading Riders. I can remember it now, playing Rainy Days and Mondays by the Carpenters and falling in love with Rupert Campbell-Black. I honestly think it was the best summer of my life. Exams done, freedom, sun on my skin and the Rutshire set occupying my mind. But somehow I suspect that, for my son, no book will ever compete with his beloved motorbikes. Not even if I were to thrust a copy of The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous into his hands and tell him he is named after the hero of that story. It seems like yesterday that it was me back there, 16 and discovering Jilly’s genius for the first time. But I can’t vicariously go back, however much I try.

Boy aside, lots more people are discovering Jilly’s genius now, thanks to Rivals on Disney+. It really is a marvellous and fitting tribute to her. But I will always associate Jilly Cooper with the summer of 1993 when I had Riders, Rupert and the promise of Jilly’s numerous other novels to enjoy. It seems oddly apt to recall this now, during another GCSE summer, as I start my countdown to a Big Birthday and try to resist having a small existential crisis centered around how one can go from sixteen to fifty in what feels like the space of five minutes.

Boy was, after all his former bravado, feeling a bit wobbly this morning. The very real prospect of leaving school has dawned on him and he, I quote “dosesn’t like change”. He said he’d like to stay at secondary school forever.  I can’t believe this is true – he is desperate to earn money and ditch Spanish. But it is comforting to think that he has enjoyed school enough for something else to feel so daunting.

As for his results? It’s impossible to call it. Passes would be good. And if  he manages to scrape by in Spanish I think I will consider that the best coup of all after our little Benidorm trip where the entertainment crew all rallied to help my son learn how to say his favourite event is the tomato festival – in spanish – a line neither he nor I will ever forget (or use).

Good luck, Boy! Or as the youth of today would say, you’ve got this. xx

#mifiestafavoritaeslatomatina