The Lady of the House Speaking
A rose by many other names
A few weeks ago we had to set up an online account for school and provide our contact details. Usually these fields [note the technical jargon] self-populate, saving valuable time which can be spent perusing the John Lewis autumn sale. However my husband recently had a crackdown on our internet security (yada yada yada) and donned his sunglasses, whipped out his standard issue neuralyzer and erased our browsing history, cached files and images and my auto-fill data. Even the cookies have gone (story of my life).
At first the computer screen wouldn’t even work. I looked under the desk and stared at the cables, as if one of them would start waving and confess “it’s me; I’m the problem”. When none of the cables owned up, I walked away to find a snack.
After consuming a chocolate mint which was so strong it almost blew my head off, I returned to the computer and everything seemed to be working. So there I was, having to type my own name and address into the rectangles fields. But when I clicked on the dropdown menu for titles, I was astounded by the range of options. The choice was no longer limited to Mr, Mrs, Ms, Miss or Dr. Instead, there were 31 titles to choose from, ranging from Mx to Reverend, from Dame to Ambassador. A little voice said “Lolabell, don’t do it” but a bigger voice with minty breath and a fabulous sequined shell suit said “rock on!” After all, what harm could it do?
Yesterday we attended our first school event. It was the “Meet the form tutor” barbecue, which ended up being held in the gymnasium due to the rain. I wondered about the practicalities of barbecuing indoors, until one of the prefects informed me that they had spent the last period throwing netballs at the gym ceiling to dislodge the smoke detectors.
“Are the drinks free?” I asked, as we walked in.
“It’s school, not Club Tropicana,” my husband whispered.
This was an important event because we were meeting our child’s new teachers for the first time (as well as other parents) and I had promised to be on my best behaviour. I even left my Fulton Bloomsbury umbrella unattended in the repurposed rubbish bin “umbrella stand” at the entrance. [At another event, I used a long string across the room to attach the umbrella handle to my wrist, though was asked to desist when it proved to be a trip hazard. Why can’t people just look where they are going? Fulton Bloomburys are not easy to come by.]
We joined the barbecue queue and were slowly moseying towards the front when the Head of Year 7, Mr Helix, made a beeline for us and introduced himself effusively. To the noise of some discontented murmurs, Mr Helix then ushered us to the front of the line (though I didn’t complain as it brought me closer to my umbrella). We bought hot-dogs for the children and they had a blast playing with the big squirty sauce bottles.
As we turned away, the headmistress (Mrs Jelpen) suddenly appeared and wanted to shake our hands. I said I was sorry but I had mustard on my fingers, and was shocked when Mrs Jelpen used her scarf to wipe my hand clean (it was polyester but still). Mrs Jelpen noticed that I had not bought a burger but I explained I was more partial to sushi. Before I knew it, Mrs Jelpen had asked Miss Bick to get onto Deliveroo and see how quickly sushi could be brought to the school. [Miss Bick hesitated saying that mobile phones were not supposed to be used on school premises, but Mrs Jelpen said no one really cared.]
We briefly discussed our eldest’s first few weeks, and Mrs Jelpen was most complimentary about the promise our child was already showing. Glowing with a mixture of pride and sausage grease, we started to give our apologies as we had promised to take the children to the fair. [They aren’t allowed on the rides but can watch other people having fun from a safe distance.]
Mrs Jelpen said she fully appreciated that people like ourselves would have very full diaries but could she just introduce us to the Chair of Governors? We agreed, particularly as everyone seemed to be coming over to us so my Fulton Bloomsbury remained within visual range. Mrs Jelpen raised a walkie-talkie to her lips and issued instructions, at which point a very tall gentleman called Mr Fountain bounded across the gym with a big smile on his face.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said, shaking my husband warmly by the hand and almost bowing to me. “We are so honoured to be joined by Lord and Lady Peagreen.”
My husband, who was in the midst of consuming the children’s rejected fried onions, spluttered. “Sorry?” he said.
“It’s not often we extend our hospitality to a lord and lady of the realm. I speak on behalf of the entire Board of Governors when I say that we are so pleased you selected our school for your children. It marks an important step towards acknowledging the very high standards of state education,” Mr Fountain continued. “It also occurred to us that you may have certain connections which could help us with school fundraising.”
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” my husband started then looked around for me but, having spied another woman hovering over my Fulton Bloomsbury, I had quickly gone over to assert my presence.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” I said, marking my territory by stroking the handle.
“An unusual specimen,” the woman replied, as she put her pagoda umbrella in the stand. “I have my own Fulton Bloomsbury at home but don’t like to expose it to wet weather.”
“How wise,” I said, wishing I had done the same. “I’m Lady Peagreen but you may call me Lady.”
“Oh really. I’m a baroness,” she said with a wry smile.
“Does ‘baroness’ beat ‘lady’?” I asked.
“I think it might,” she winked.
“Dammit,” I said, “at least I know for next time.”
My husband found me. “Lady Lolabell,” he called, and I spun around.
“You rang, m’Lord?” I replied (well, I thought it was funny). Sternly he beckoned me back to where he and the headteacher were stood, both looking unamused.
I apologised for the error and rattled off various excuses including our computer mouse being a bit slippy-slidey, and that the titles could be interpreted as aspirational (for we genuinely intend to buy land one day, at which point my husband spluttered again but this time without the onions).
“It happens more than you might think,” Mrs Jelpen said, looking much less enthusiastic about making our acquaintance. Earlier she had met a professor, and when she asked the man what he was a professor of, he answered ‘purple’.
Mr Fountain had apparently already danced over to speak to another family, where both parents were apparently King’s Counsel, and then he needed to introduce himself to a duchess. I had spotted the duchess the second we walked in, and immediately knew I wasn’t the only one with a slippy-slidey computer mouse. Her baroque wig à la Bridgerton had taken the façade too far, though clearly she posed no risk to my Fulton Bloomsbury as her head wouldn’t fit underneath it.
For good measure, I insisted to Mrs Jelpen that no offence would be taken if the school continued to refer to us as Lord and Lady Peagreen, at which point my husband ushered me away.
We left for the fair and my husband drove. He prefers to, since being startled when I made a small driving error while concentrating too hard on my vocal harmonies for ‘Chapel of Love’.
When we eventually got home, he made me promise to amend our titles, which I did. We are now Admiral Peagreen and Mademoiselle Côtes du Rhône. Enchanté!