On Friday night I had two Oxford PPE hopefuls in my office for a final tutorial with their glorious leader. I nodded appreciatively as they spoke about things I didn’t understand, and waved an approving hand whenever quotations I didn’t recognise from philosophers I’d never heard of were cited. I then asked both students to offer a solution to the Eurozone problem in sixty seconds, but immediately got lost when one of the pupils described the European economy in terms of arcane political theory. Finally, I was asked if philosopher X was responsible for theory Y, and I said I didn’t know. We all shook hands and off they went to Oxford.
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Consider the humble tea towel. No, seriously. How elevated it must feel when, once every year, the soap suds are left to drain away of their own accord because the proud rag adorns the head of a Pre-Prep shepherd. If “Come to the Manger” lacked a Cecil B. DeMille budget, it sure hit home in the lumpy throat department. (This may be because the play was not marred, as was a production some years ago, by a fight breaking out among the three wise men). Meanwhile in Prep we had “The Peace Child” which should be compulsory viewing for some of the role models (sic) playing in the Premier League. The Seniors turned in a transcendental “Midsummer Night’s Dream”, while tonight we have a charity concert (staff and pupils performing) for the flood victims in Thailand. And yet .. and yet .... a prospective parent told me yesterday that Bromsgrove is still perceived to be dominated by sport. I will set my reply to music and have a dance troupe deliver it.
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I am going to sing “Baby I love you” at the Charity Concert. Why? Because you should never trust a pop song that purports to say more than “Baby I love you.” Look at the lyrical abominations that have arisen as bands try to say things beyond the proper metier of pop (which is teen angst round the soda fountain). I mean, what’s this about?
"I drew a line,
I drew a line for you.
Oh, what a thing to do.
And it was all yellow."
I drew a line for you.
Oh, what a thing to do.
And it was all yellow."
And they’re millionaires. Millionaires I tell you.
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In the middle of Gordon Green stands a Christmas tree. Yesterday evening, as darkness fell, we had a two hundred and sixty strong floodlit CCF Review on the south side of the tree, overseen by a naval Commodore. To the east, at the same time, in a brightly lit Routh Hall, pupils chatted, served and performed at our Christmas party for local senior citizens. North, our many caterers were busy in their kitchens preparing hundreds of evening meals, while to the west, the administration workers processed a myriad online forms and accounts. And on the other side of the world, a different Bromsgrove School also prepared for Christmas. And the children there will, from time to time, be thinking of a place a long, long way west of them. An ancient, special place where for hundreds of years, young people have looked forward to this time of year. And from where I, the most fortunate of Headmasters, now offer Season’s Greetings to you all.
