Lowewood Academy

Oh, but this is interesting: my cool, grown-up long-distance not-quite-boyfriend Freddy is terrified of his mummy. So, Beth is in trouble for ordering all this food for Jessica’s party from her mum’s account, and Freddy - having provided the address for delivery, and driven all the boxes to Lowewood for us - is also implicated.

He’s in absolute panic, and that’s kind of sweet. The worst that can happen to him is that his parents dock his allowance - and OK, that would suck - but he’s wailing and carrying on via email like a damsel in distress.

Like, “Waaah! My little sister has got me into trouble! Waaah!” Honestly.

Beth, strangely enough, hasn’t said a word about it to me - like, not a sound! - but Freddy has filled me in. I was fearing the worst, and had my fears confirmed by consulting Miss Bellend’s desk calendar while she was bringing Mr S his cup of tea.

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Fear and anticipation are so full of paradox.  Why, when made to wait for a punishment, does time both race *and* drag?  Why does the dreaded moment take so long to arrive, and yet arrive all too soon?  Why, indeed, when Mr Shaftebotham’s time is in such demand, does his diary offer a condemned girl her required slot a mere 3 days after sentencing?

“You’re best to take it, Elizabeth,” counselled Miss Bellend with some sympathy.  “It will be a long wait for you otherwise, and he *will* notice that the opportunity had been there…”

Which was no choice at all really, as it is simply not sensible to piss off a man who is already going to thrash you.  So from that moment when she typed in my 9.30pm appointment, I began my battle with the mysteries of time.

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Now I know where I stand on the ladder of life. About three rungs up from the bottom. I’m perfectly used to looking up and seeing the heels of people like Sylvie and Gina and then above them people like Beth and Richard. Yes, we’re talking about the British class system, which everyone claims doesn’t exist, but actually, it’s like the mad auntie that you only see once a year. You forget about her hairy chin, warts, cackling innuendo and penchant for getting hammered on Bristol Cream sherry between January and November. Then at Christmas, it’s all there, in glorious Technicolor weirdness and you remember just how much of difference there is between her and you. Or Them and Us.

This is exactly how it is with Beth and I – day to day, we get up, go to lessons, possibly get into trouble, eat dinner (she calls it lunch)  at mid-day (she calls it noon) and tea at 7pm (she calls it dinner), make cups of tea, wax each other’s legs, paint each other’s toenails and drink shots of Archers. She and I get on exceptionally well. This tends to make you forget that she is actually Lady Elizabeth Somerton. With some people, like Richard, Celia and Amelia, you never forget that they are higher up the social scale then you are. With Beth, you do. All the time!

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