On the day I left school, I made a vow to never, ever see again anyone with whom I shared a class.
My school was a mediocre all-girl private school with few facilities but plenty of pretensions.
Unfortunately, most of the people who went there – and their parents – suffered the same delusions of grandeur.
Everything was yah and rah and shall-we-go-to-Meribel-this-winter-or-to-Aspen-daaaaaaarling.
It was cliquier than David Cameron’s cabinet. It was hell and after nine years of it I couldn’t wait to leave and go to a proper college.
I did miss a few of them, though. So luckily for me, when Facebook was invented I was able to reconnect with those of my classmates with whom I had got on.
Last week I met an old gel for a rare night of cocktails and catching up.
She is a working mum and we were talking about how the things we do never seem to be good enough – at least to us.
If we clean the house, it could be cleaner. If we do our filing, it might be a bit slapdash. If we go on diets, are we sure we’re not cheating just a tiniest bit?
And that reminded me of something I read on the Daily Mail’s website – feature writer Rachel Ragg’s desire for her daughter to grow up, marry a rich man and presumably spend the next few decades rearing his children.
No job, no career, nothing. Ms Ragg says her life as a working mother is a struggle and she doesn’t want that for her daughter.
So she pays £3,000 a term for her to go to a far grander private school than I went to and hopes she’ll be intelligent enough to study at an Oxford college, meet the man of her dreams and, as in a Jilly Cooper novel, live happily ever after rearing horses and drinking gin at 10am.
Perhaps I’m jealous, but what about her independence?
Does she ask for housekeeping money so she can buy a magazine? What happens if the marriage breaks down? On to the next victim?
It sounds a little bit predatory, a bit dole-bludger-for-the-aspiring-middle-classes. I’d want better for any daughter I have.