Here I sit in the local sixth form college: door open and no-one in sight. It’s not like University where there is an endless circuit of life-amid-the-lectures but here it is like a normal school, except with pink hair: pink hair everywhere. So, between lessons it is deathly quiet, and I await the mad rush of breaktime when I can over at my door and smile at people as they pass by. It’s not much, but it’s chaplaincy and I like it.
Thinking further afield, Number One Son completed his A’ Level intentions form this morning: choices which on one level seem as arbitrary as deciding whether to cross the road [it could get you killed, after all or so significant as to alter the course of his life: a life I have great interest in, but ultimately no control over. I can advise, exhort, plead and anything else, but ultimately it is his decision. So, Maths, Biology, Chemistry and Psychology [Physics has lost out recently, a duff Mock GCSE paper, a lack of trust in a certain teacher and the suggestion that he goes to a subject clinic for physics, something he appears to be allergic to, so no Physics. The form asks for “Intended Career Path” and he put down (incorrectly spelled, note – what hope does that give you) – Medicine, when in reality I know he has no idea whatsoever and really wants a job so bizarre that people have to ask at dinner parties “How on earth did you get to do that?” (not a bad one, I suspect, but how does that ambition fit these precise, clinical and league-table obsessed processes I don’t know). Only a few months until GCSEs, then that step is passed. You want them to do well, but you can’t do it for them, and more than anything you just want them to be happy. Preferably not poor, but happy one the less.