A Private Education
(1975-76)

I have, in fact, encountered Private Education in my scholastic career. Not to the extent of having attended Eton or Harrow, but to a lesser degree in that for about eight months my French lessons at St. Nicholas were supplemented by the services of a private tutor called Mr. Amos.

It all started when I left my comprehensive school in Wembley knowing only that "La gare est pres d'ici'' and the fact that "Jean a trois bananes''. With this somewhat limited vocabulary you can understand my terror when asked to conjugate "avoir''. The rest of the form were light years ahead of me, and I was right up the creek without a paddle in sight. It was at the point when even K--- could beat me in the examinations that I realised drastic action had to be taken.

t was at this point that Mr. Amos entered the scene, complete with Bowler hat, brolly and beard. He was a man who thought Wellington a better general than Napoleon and who couldn't tell a Turner from a Canaletto. Each Monday afternoon I forfeited the repeat showings of "And Mother Makes Three'', in order to expand my knowledge of the French language. Mr. Amos was an excellent teacher, who taught me the tenses and explained why I couldn't find ''J'ai' in a French/English dictionary. He even made me do the homework he set, and commended me on my French accent which was an exaggerated Maurice Chevalier impersonation with just a touch of Sacha Distel thrown in for good measure. You could almost hear the accordion and smell the onions.

A miracle had happened. I found myself shooting through the present, perfect, past, pluperfect and the rest, until I had actually overtaken the rest of my class. At this point Mr. Amos left me on my own, confident of an 'O' level. The fact that, two years later only managed to scrape a 'C' grade is not a reflection upon him at all. It's just that I was so confident that for two years I couldn't be bothered to do any work at school and spent my time defacing other people's books, although I did put in a determined effort to see 'Emmanuelle''.

So I acknowledge my debt to private education in the form of Mr. Amos, who gave me all the knowledge I needed to pass my examinations, and also convinced me that I wasn't just too stupid to understand the language.

Of course, these lessons were not without their drawbacks. In fact I detested them. Apart from their being very boring and uncomfortable lessons, you must also remember that Mr. Amos was not motivated solely by the pleasure of helping a struggling scholar through the rigours of the French language. He wanted money and lots of it at £1.50 an hour, once a week for eight months. We didn't even charge him for tea and sandwiches.

The inevitable question arises: is it fair to purchase an education, be it from Mr. Amos or Eton? Was it fair on K---, eventually condemned to C.S.E., that I should privately be given a helping hand whilst he continued to struggle? Was it fair on my friends in the comprehensive whose entire knowledge of the French language was confined to asking where the station is (and some hadn't even grasped that). Obviously they weren't being properly taught, since all the best teachers were charging £1.50 an hour and enjoying free tea and sandwiches. It would appear a slightly unbalanced system.

Although my case is a minor one, the same applies to the larger Private institutions. In defence I think it is fair to say that the individual should be able to spend his money on whatever he chooses, and to give his child a good education would appear a very worthwhile investment. Apart from that, speaking for myself, Mr. Amos' lessons saved me from the embarrassment and humiliation that followed coming bottom in the French exams, and for that I am grateful.

As for my knowledge of French I have since forgotten everything ever taught to me, except that "La gare est pres d'ici'' and the fact that "Jean a trois bananes.'