A paintballing career beckons. Oh dear
‘We need to talk about Betty,’ I said to Mr Home Front recently. ‘Not now – I’m hungry,’ he said, tearing open a packet of crisps. Here’s the problem: her A-level grades were not as good as we had hoped. So far, she has only received an offer from Brighton to study English language and creative writing. (‘You can teach creative writing?’ said the Aged P. ‘You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’) Nevertheless, I drove Betty down to its open day, in the hope she would decide this former polytechnic could perhaps be her own version of Charles Ryder’s Oxford. But the place just reminded her too much of the sixth form college where she had been so unhappy. She also resents having to pay the same exorbitant fees as those at top universities. ‘Like paying for a BMW, and getting a Vauxhall Corsa,’ she grumbled. When I told...
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