Working 9 to 3 - Making School Work

I've blogged before about the classic milestones of childhood being far less interesting than those that go unrecorded and often unremarked. The first time your kid's a hypocrite, anyone? Without doubt one of the real biggies is First Day at School. This phenomenon has an extraordinary effect on even the most social media averse. The obligatory doorstep photo really does seem as compulsory as the NHS clap was during the first lockdown. If an Englishman's home is his castle his doorstep is definitely his family's shop window.

And yet in the Hardy household this particular moment of my child's life (unlikely practically every other millisecond) went unsharented. This might be for the basic reason that I was belting off to court at exactly the time Hardy 1 was making his scholastic debut. It might also be that the school that we just managed to drag ourselves into the catchment area for (and I really mean just, with a waiting list place being made available a couple of days before term started) has no time for such spirit crushing and independence stifling things as uniforms. Something which, for me at least, has been rather discombobulating. My educational endeavours involved more uniforms than Lord Mountbatten would know what to do with. They included brown knickerbockers, gold and russet cravats, tweed jackets, grey flannel trousers, tail coats, stiff collars, white bow ties, mortar boards (even pink carnations for heaven's sake!). Is it any wonder I've ended up in a job involving wigs and 17th century cosplay?

In reality though I think it's because starting school has provoked some intensely, I might go so far as to say, aggressively ambivalent feelings in me. Obviously I am hugely excited that formal education is underway and that his days of making mud pies in the nursery sand pit will fast be a thing of the past. But the fact of the matter is that school and specifically the school day is a complete grenade in the functioning of the family timetable. Drop off is after the start of the working day and pick up is hours before the end of it. In a fully employed household that creates a real childcare conundrum, apparently there are these mythical concepts 'Breakfast Club' and 'After School Club', but I have more chance of winning a place in Valhalla than getting my kid into either of those.

It is very difficult to avoid the conclusion that those in government responsible for administering the education system just do not want both parents in work and it's pretty obvious which parent it is they expect not to be. When I grumbled about this on Twitter someone reasonably observed that small children can't be expected to engage in formal learning until 6 pm and I quite agree. Expecting a 5 year old to be hard at work at their Latin Primer gone cocktail hour is absurd. But sport, art, music, theatre, play, is that not an education also? I know, I know, I know, there are no playing fields, there's no money for instruments and the too few teachers that there are need to get home to plan to Ofsted's satisfaction.

I have absolutely no doubt that I'm about to discover there is a very good reason why school chuck out time falls right in the middle of the afternoon court session but as a newcomer to the game it does seem a very strange rule.

When Anthony Nolan came knocking - Part 1

 

There aren't many decisions you make 20 years previously which out of the blue suddenly demand your immediate attention. Investing in Premium Bonds, if you miraculously one day become a winner, might be one of them. Another is finding out you're a match.

When I was at university I decided to give blood donation a go. While there Anthony Nolan were swabbing; as I was about to have a needle stuck in my arm having my mouth swabbed seemed a trifling imposition by comparison. So I signed up without hesitation. For some days afterwards I wondered when I would hear back. But the days turned into weeks, then months, then years and finally decades.

All that time I knew I was on the register but it wasn't exactly at the forefront of my thoughts. Until last week: I emerged from court, turned on my phone and saw a missed call and a text message. The voicemail and the text said the same thing. I was a match and needed to call back as soon as possible.

I'm ashamed to admit that my very first reaction was that maybe this was some kind of weird scam. That was quickly followed by a restless excitement, then nervousness and finally the classic barrister's worry of how this would fit into my diary. I rang straight back and spoke to an extremely nice man who explained all the next steps.

He said I would need to provide a blood sample and asked if he could arrange for the nurse to see me during the call. I idiotically thought for a moment he meant literally then and there on a street corner in Huntingdon. He clarified that while they were keen they weren't that keen. Instead he asked if the following day would be convenient. I said it was.

After the call I was sent a questionnaire to complete with my health history. It also asked me to confirm my contact details and I was briefly thrown by seeing my childhood landline. Fortunately I have only ever had one mobile phone number and email address but I realised in that moment what a headache it must be when a match is found and contact details are years out of date. IF YOU'RE ON THE REGISTER PLEASE UPDATE THEM TODAY.

The next day a nurse turned up promptly in mask and apron. She had a blood pressure cuff on my right arm, an oximeter on my left hand and a temperature gun against my head within a couple of minutes. I made a note of the stats and have already taken steps to address a rather higher blood pressure reading than I would have liked to see.

For now my blood is in the lab for final checking of compatibility. I do not yet know whether I will be found suitable for donation or not. There is no doubt in my mind that I will do it if I am. I was told there is a 1 in 900 chance of being a match.

While I'm on this wholly unexpected journey that I put my name down for all those years ago I thought I might keep a record of my thoughts and experiences. Most of all however I want to take this opportunity to urge you to register if you have not. Almost every one of us would accept a donation if we were gravely ill and, in my view, this is one of those occasions in life when it is genuinely better to be able to give than to have to receive:

https://www.anthonynolan.org/help-save-a-life/join-stem-cell-register