Admission Accomplished

Getting your child into the school you want takes a bit of homework, says Vassi Chamberlain

The wedding…
I’m saying my vows. My husband is gorgeous. But all I can think about is sex – sex and Wellborn College. As in, will we have a son so that I can send him to Wellborn College? Please God make that happen. Please let me be a mother to a Wellbornian. Please. And, if we have a girl, please make it St Jezebel’s and before that the Mother Superior Junior School and before that the Brompton Cross School nursery. What? Sorry? Yes, of course I do. I promise to stick with you through rich and poor. And I will have a son and he will go to Wellborn.

First year of marriage…
I’m in Boots staring at ovulation packs. I buy four – can’t afford to get it wrong. Must give birth early September – it’s the only way to guarantee a place at the schools I want. Any later and they’ll tell me I’m too late and baby isn’t eligible.

The pregnancy…
A smart consulting room in Harley Street following the three-month scan. Me to ob-gyn: ‘Yes, I’d like an elective caesarian. Yes, I know 10 September is two weeks before my due date, but that’s fine, isn’t it?’ Phew, I don’t think he knows that the reason I want to give birth early is to get the application forms on time to the five nurseries and five prep schools I deem socially acceptable. I knew a father who ran straight from the delivery room to the Conker nursery only to be told they were already full. He sat crying on the pavement, petrified of telling his hormonal, lactating wife.

The delivery…
Only a few hours to go before my Wellborn/St Jezebel’s baby emerges. Thank God I’ve remembered my schools file. It’s safely tucked in my overnight bag. Every application form is filled in, the £50 deposit cheques (£500 in total, non-refundable) are signed and the letters of recommendation, from a minor royal, an aristo, a supermodel and a hedgefunder, saying my child will be an indispensable addition to their school, are all included.

The afterbirth…
Husband dispatched to schools with forms and bunches of flowers for headmistresses. Yes, headmistresses. Baby turned out to be a girl. Wellborn is not to be this time, but St Jezebel’s will do very nicely. Besides Wellborn is so close by, she’s virtually guaranteed to marry an OW.

Two-week-old baby…
How could I forgotten? Where’s my brain? I was concentrating so hard on nurseries and schools, I totally forgot about baby classes: yoga, music, massage and… sod that! I won’t be going anyway. They are all nanny’s problem. Must concentrate on nurseries.

First day at nursery (age three)…
She got into Brompton Cross School nursery. Waiting list longer than for a Birkin. Who cares? I did it. I mean, baby did it. Oh look, there’s Princess Hannah-Louise of Uzbekistan. We’ll be friends by half-term, I know it. Hurrah, there’s a mini-prince in baby’s class. Scratch future husband being an OW. Make that a prince. Who cares about Wellborn?

Prep-school assessment days (always in the January before September entrance)…
More nervous than before I lost my virginity. I must make a good impression at all five schools. Had a blowdry, have dressed mummy-appropriate and not too fashiony and, of course, I took the Birkin. Swear they asked husband and me more questions than they did baby. Particularly the headmistress, who seemed to think that where we go on holiday and who we socialise with are very important. Actually, who am I kidding? They are.

First day at prep school (age five)…
I am officially a yummy mummy. Baby got into all five schools. Didn’t sleep for days trying to choose which prep is best. Eventually went for the one with the most perfect demographic representation – royals, aristos, Americans, Russians, Euros, a billionaire, plus a couple of grubby Sloaney types to level things out. Counted five pairs of Jimmy Choos, 10 Anya Hindmarchs and 22 Birkins in playground.

School holidays…
We took the tutor with us to Mustique to help baby pass her 11-plus so she can get into the best public school, but he seems more interested in everyone else’s teenage daughter. Actually, he’s quite hot. Wonder if he fancies me? I could become a MILF.

First day at boarding school, St Mary’s, Watford (age 11)…
The poor bugger is on her own now thanks to the 11-plus disaster. She failed it so miserably she didn’t get into any of the schools in Tatler’s Schools Guide. I tell everyone she got into St Mary’s. They’re all a bit puzzled as they never see me on speech day. Can’t bear to tell them it’s St Mary’s, Watford. Note to self: find out if Boots does baby-gender selection kits too.

Vassi Chamberlain for Tatler