This article is taken from the December-January 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £25.
Spoke too soon. Hector very much not taking senior school in his stride. In fact I fear Penelope (the insane, borderline-witch tutor we used to coach him through Common Entrance) must put some kind of spell on her pupils to ensure success.
I knew it was too good to be true when he got a non-waiting-list offer. The fog of cigarette smoke and cat food every time I dropped Hector off at her house should have warned me. But everyone said Penelope worked miracles, and so it came to pass.
I know, I know. I should have gone with Amanda — equally insane but a younger, sexier tutor whose USP is getting boys into UCS/City/Highgate (no others). Seriously, she’s made the study of this Holy Trinity into some kind of private PhD. And would actually have prepped Hector for these schools, beyond the exams and interview.
But I just find her so objectionable that I couldn’t. She was too much like the sixth-formers I remember from St Paul’s, whose entire personality was debating. It’s baffling that she’s chosen to devote herself to this passion for private day schools, rather than something corporate.
Perhaps there’s actually more cash in telling each generation of North London women why their cherished son’s interest in Arsenal just “isn’t very City”.
Worse, whilst Hector’s flailing around trying to keep up with his homework, and I’m swearing at Google classrooms, I’ve got my friend Alexia humble-bragging about how “wild” it is that at her daughter’s school the kids all actually “want” to work.
This being a The Latymer/Dame Alice Owen’s/Camden-type grammar (i.e. basically private, but parents off-the-scale smug about not paying). Happy for you, Lex! No wonder The Latymer I remember from the 90s was so full of enterprising teenagers selling each other drugs. Didn’t say that, obviously.
Meanwhile, Minnie, true to form, managed to fail to get an ADHD diagnosis. Something I’ve literally never heard of happening before. I found myself in this bizarre parallel universe where I was bummed out because she scored 20 per cent on inattentiveness, and I couldn’t handle a child of mine scoring that low on anything. Old habits die hard.
Since when are the Noughties long enough ago to warrant a fashion revival?
Anyway they fobbed us off with some woolly verdict that she has inattentive “traits”, and on we went to Harvey Nichols for lunch, where she then proved VERY attentive towards the foul Juicy Couture diamond-encrusted tracksuits. Side note, what the actual velour fuck? Why are these monstrosities back? And how are the Noughties long enough ago to warrant a fashion revival?
As for Lyra, my trusty middle child, we’ll just have to hope the Sephora advent calendar keeps the A-grades coming. Yes, we do have performance-related pay in this family. No other option. She never got over Mathnasium’s policy of rewarding clients (i.e. eight-year-olds) with Amazon vouchers. I know, I know. Why didn’t I take Hector there, instead of Penelope the witch or Amanda the robot?
Meanwhile, Christmas chez Savage-Gores looms … this year at a massive barn conversion in the Cotswolds, booked by my sister-in-law Eugenie. Which is actually a terrible choice, having one cavernous main space, and eight cell-like bedrooms off it. How, exactly, are we meant to avoid each other?
Eugenie, of course, has bagged the only separate bedroom, a shepherd’s hut in the garden. Which she’s framing as some kind of noble gesture! The shepherd’s hut has an en suite, FFS! Meanwhile we’ll have her kid, in a barn with The Wolseley’s acoustics — on Christmas morning. FML.
