I was persuaded to stay on in the 6th, doing art, French and maths, to try for architecture, at university. My mentors told me that grants were only being given to people doing degree course, not diplomas, because of high demand for grants, and to do a degree course, you needed a foreign language, plus a third subject (maths, in my case) hence the French, which was all Greek to me.
I still speak a sort of ‘A-Level Failed’ French, when in France. Being a painter, I find it beneficial to visit the Impressionists, on the top floor of the Musee d’Orsay, as often as mayhap, to recharge my batteries. When I start jawing at them, the Frogs usually either burst into tears, make the sign to ward off the evil eye, or chuck a bucket of water over me. Understandable, really.
The maths didn’t bother me (80% at O level) but in A level I came up against calculus. I could not make any sense of it. Gobbledegook. Nonsense. It was like a closed book to me- weighing about 7lbs and hitting me between the eyes. I went down for a count – of 30 - %, which was another O level pass- not A level, and a repeat O level was as useful and inviting as wire wool shreddies. I failed the French as well, stopped dreaming about university, went out and got a job in an architect’s office.
Working on the next drawing board to me was a boy waiting to start university, that term, with a grant, on only 5 ‘O’s and no ‘A’s. When I enquired of the relevant office, about this anomaly, I was told they had no record of my ever having applied for a grant.
Our twinkle-eyed, kindly, father figure of a head master, George Wilkinson, dear old ‘Twilks’,had sold me down the river, either by omitting to issue me with the an application form, or by sitting on it. I don’t recall being issued with one. I looked to him for guidance. I didn’t know the drill. I also found out that all the stuff about grants only going to degree candidates was a load of cobblers, because degree/ diploma streaming doesn’t happen until the end of the first year at university.
That means that I could have gone to university at the end of the 5th year, with a grant. I was conned into staying on, because a strong 6th form made the school look good, which was especially desirable that year, the school having gone up-market. We had finally escaped from the workhouse, and moved into new, bespoke premises.
The school had blossomed into Abbeydale Grammar School, and so had moved up the league table considerably. I’m told that more bums on seats in the 6th meant more money in George’s pocket. Now this may be disputed in some quarters, but what can’t be disputed is that it certainly put more money in the school budget.
Add to all this the fact that, if I’d gone at the end of the 5th, I wouldn’t have been around to pull my last stunt, the one that rattled George’s cage so much that he decided to fix my wagon; either he decided or was persuaded. I’m sure he acted on the best advice.