My seven-year-old son has written to the British Prime Minister. He put pen to paper in pure innocence and wonder at sharing his Christian name with the country's leader and then said: "What shall I write now Mum?" Well, we could have left it at that, but bearing in mind the recent announcement on increasing students' tuition fees and the fact that I have three sons to cater for, my mind worked overtime.
"Tell him you want to study when you are older and ask him to keep the university tuition fees down," I suggested nonchalently.
What inspiration! What madness? Will he get an answer? Should we tell the media and let them blow it out of the water? What is there to lose? What will it gain?
While others are busy ranting and raving, smashing windows and causing mayhem, more are protesting silently in stand offs. Maybe this is a good way of joining the campaign to stop Cameron's calamity taking its course.
After all, I have an upper second class honours decree; why shouldn't my boys have the same opportunity as I did? My Dad was a coalman and my Mam bathed old people. We had no funds for such luxuries as private education. It's just that I was bonny and bright and caught the attention of a good teacher who encouraged me to reach my full potential at junior school. It was easy to get to the local Grammar School. You just had to be recommended; no mean feat for a kid blessed with my ability.
I went for a two day trial before the end of the Summer Term and hated it. Where were my friends? Why did everyone seem cleverer than me? Why were their skirts so short and hair so blond? I don't think I'll like it here. Maybe it was the fact I was taller than everyone else or that I had trouble desguising my minefield of acne, but I found myself saying, "Mam, I don't think I want to go to the Grammar School."
"Too late, I've spent all my wages on you're uniform. You're going!" said my Mam.
That was the worst summer holidays of my young life. I hated the thought of going to THAT SCHOOL. As the weeks of dread dwindled down to days, I had trouble sleeping and then hours and minutes before getting on the bus to the hellhouse, my heart pounded and my hands grew hot and sweaty. I stammered out my destination and slumped into the nearest available seat and found myself sitting next to Tom. He lived up the road from me and had scraped into the list of recommended students by a greasy hair and maybe a louse. I'd once had a fight with him the playground but the hachete had been buried and he had been spruced up.
"Am a bit nervous, are you?" he asked.
"Me, too" I wimpered. We spent the rest of the journey comparing notes about out taster days.
We trudged off the bus ta little lighter hearted and went our separate ways. Not realising our paths would cross again.
I don't remember anything else about that first day at Grammar School. The blur of several years is smattered with joy, hope, love and routine. I loved my locality, but found myself thinking on the way to school one day: "There must be more to life than this?" And the germ of ambition was birthed in an instant. I left Whitehaven Grammar with a eight "O" levels and three "A" levels. The world was my oyster but Manchester Polytechnic became my pearl.
Isn't it amazing how a lifetime of experience can filter through your thoughts in a single condensed moment of nostalgia?
Anyway, where was I? My son David took great delight in scribbling his very first letter. He wrote:
To David Cameron,
My name is the same as your name. I want to go to university when I grow up. Please keep university fees cheap so I can go when I can.
From David.
Aged 7.
Underneath he drew a picture of himself with a speech bubble saying, "I am David." He took great delight in licking the yucky line to seal the envelope and attaching the first class stamp I bought in a batch before the price went up. Together we posted it.
We are still waiting for a reply and he hopes it will come soon so he can take it to school and show his teacher. Perhaps she'll put it on the wall to display alongside the letter his classmate got from the HRH the Queen.
Watch this space!
"Tell him you want to study when you are older and ask him to keep the university tuition fees down," I suggested nonchalently.
What inspiration! What madness? Will he get an answer? Should we tell the media and let them blow it out of the water? What is there to lose? What will it gain?
While others are busy ranting and raving, smashing windows and causing mayhem, more are protesting silently in stand offs. Maybe this is a good way of joining the campaign to stop Cameron's calamity taking its course.
After all, I have an upper second class honours decree; why shouldn't my boys have the same opportunity as I did? My Dad was a coalman and my Mam bathed old people. We had no funds for such luxuries as private education. It's just that I was bonny and bright and caught the attention of a good teacher who encouraged me to reach my full potential at junior school. It was easy to get to the local Grammar School. You just had to be recommended; no mean feat for a kid blessed with my ability.
I went for a two day trial before the end of the Summer Term and hated it. Where were my friends? Why did everyone seem cleverer than me? Why were their skirts so short and hair so blond? I don't think I'll like it here. Maybe it was the fact I was taller than everyone else or that I had trouble desguising my minefield of acne, but I found myself saying, "Mam, I don't think I want to go to the Grammar School."
"Too late, I've spent all my wages on you're uniform. You're going!" said my Mam.
That was the worst summer holidays of my young life. I hated the thought of going to THAT SCHOOL. As the weeks of dread dwindled down to days, I had trouble sleeping and then hours and minutes before getting on the bus to the hellhouse, my heart pounded and my hands grew hot and sweaty. I stammered out my destination and slumped into the nearest available seat and found myself sitting next to Tom. He lived up the road from me and had scraped into the list of recommended students by a greasy hair and maybe a louse. I'd once had a fight with him the playground but the hachete had been buried and he had been spruced up.
"Am a bit nervous, are you?" he asked.
"Me, too" I wimpered. We spent the rest of the journey comparing notes about out taster days.
We trudged off the bus ta little lighter hearted and went our separate ways. Not realising our paths would cross again.
I don't remember anything else about that first day at Grammar School. The blur of several years is smattered with joy, hope, love and routine. I loved my locality, but found myself thinking on the way to school one day: "There must be more to life than this?" And the germ of ambition was birthed in an instant. I left Whitehaven Grammar with a eight "O" levels and three "A" levels. The world was my oyster but Manchester Polytechnic became my pearl.
Isn't it amazing how a lifetime of experience can filter through your thoughts in a single condensed moment of nostalgia?
Anyway, where was I? My son David took great delight in scribbling his very first letter. He wrote:
To David Cameron,
My name is the same as your name. I want to go to university when I grow up. Please keep university fees cheap so I can go when I can.
From David.
Aged 7.
Underneath he drew a picture of himself with a speech bubble saying, "I am David." He took great delight in licking the yucky line to seal the envelope and attaching the first class stamp I bought in a batch before the price went up. Together we posted it.
We are still waiting for a reply and he hopes it will come soon so he can take it to school and show his teacher. Perhaps she'll put it on the wall to display alongside the letter his classmate got from the HRH the Queen.
Watch this space!
My son got a reply from 10, Downing Street,on New Year's Eve, 2010, to say they have noted his views and will pass them on to the relevant Minister.
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