Postby Hollamumma » Fri Oct 16, 2015 10:44 pm
And since it's late and my husband's asleep but I'm not tired let me regale you with a tale about some other places: we applied to l'Ecole de Battersea when my son was one. We were told that applications could only be submitted after the parents completed a school tour. Happily, we offered to come by whenever was convenient. We were given two options: November and March. That is all. As it happens, I was sick on the day in November when we were booked in, so rescheduled ...for March. I submitted all the paperwork they requested with the application after the tour, including medical records that no other school asked for, and an extended essay - in French - about why we would opt for a French school as opposed to a local British one. I attended two interviews on the day I saw the school, one with the director of admissions and one with the director of the language programme. We received a form letter a year later informing us that we were on the wait list. I wrote back eagerly confirming our interest and asking when they would be making final decisions. I heard rien. I waited. Nothing for two weeks. Tentatively I wrote again, a short note. Nothing. We never heard from them again. This is after having paid the admin fee, needless to say. So it isn't a guarantee of anything like promptness or reciprocity, much less a place. Unfortunately. There was another school we toured when my son was a few weeks old and he was in the Bjorn. I assumed this would be OK. As soon as we arrived an imperious headmistress informed us, in front of a room full of other parents, that they didn't have any facilities for babies and parents weren't invited to bring babies along. They hadn't thought to mention that on the phone when I booked the appointment. This did earn some spontaneous sympathy from the other parents present but I made a mental vow not to contact them ever again. I didn't want to be so rude as to leave, on the spot, so as long as my son was sleeping, we stayed with the tour. At some point he woke up, needed a change, and starred crying. The headmistress gave me a look of mock-anguish -- the kind that feigns empathy while revealing just the opposite. We smiled, thanked her, and left. We never wrote them a cheque, fortunately! I know this feels awful now, but later, parts of it will be really funny.