hen I graduated from Cambridge, my contemporaries

all stepped into well-paid careers in finance and

management consultancy, but my own master plan

was different. I wanted to be a writer. That summer

I starred in an original musical at the Edinburgh

Festival Fringe. It opened to half-full audiences and

lukewarm reviews and, thanks to a four-year course

and a September birthday, I had somehow reached the

practically geriatric age of 23. My parents made it clear

that while I was for ever welcome in the family home,

it was time to become an adult and get a job.

I certainly had no intention of following my parents

into what amounted to the family profession: teaching.

But then my friend Zoe texted me.

“Come to London. I’m making £30 an hour helping

kids do their homework,” she wrote. A couple of weeks

later I was in an office in Hammersmith.

“Tell me about teaching in Guatemala,” Philippa

said. Philippa was a stern woman in her forties who

looked delighted to be back in a structured blazer after

a summer of blouses. She had invited me to an interview

for a job as a private tutor. Now I was regretting putting

the words “teacher” and “Guatemala” on my CV in

quite such large font. During my year abroad for my

Spanish degree I had done a few weeks’ volunteering

at a school run by an American man whose claim to

fame was having once broken both his arms playing

squash against himself.

“Don’t worry about your experience,” said Philippa.

“You went to Cambridge. Clients love that. It’s more

about making sure you... fit into their lifestyle.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I said.

“Excellent,” Philippa said. “As long as you don’t have

any skeletons in your closet.”

It was an unfortunate choice of words. At school I had

hidden the fact that I was gay. Philippa had made it clear

that she was hiring me because I fitted a certain image

that made me an easy sell to her affluent London client

base. Anything that complicated that picture I decided

to keep to myself. Philippa explained that due to my

limited experience she would start me off as a “study

buddy” — a role focused on revision and homework

help with a job title that sounded comfortingly juvenile.

NEW JOB ALERT

Subject GCSE English

Who Horace, 16, has been demoted to the intermediate

set against his mother’s wishes. She is concerned about

his new English teacher and wants some support to

ensure he gains a top grade in his coursework on

Twelfth Night

Where Belgravia

When Wednesdays, after school

Wednesday, January 28, Belgravia

Once you were assigned a job you were provided with

the client’s full name and address. I had developed a

habit of googling not only postcodes but the clients

themselves. When I looked up Horace’s mother,

Carolyn, I discovered she was the author of a blog

where she described herself as a “self-professed

yummy mummy”.

In the flesh Carolyn was very trim and dressed in Ugg

boots and a fur gilet. It’s what I would have worn if I was

going as a yummy mummy to a fancy-dress party, and

I wondered if she was engaged in a similar sort of role

play. “Horace is waiting for you in his room,” she said.

Horace was chubby and chirpy, with a weird

familiarity that made me wonder if he had got me

confused with another tutor. But no — it was upper-

class confidence. He was keen to get this over with but

appeared to think it was something that would happen

without any input from him.

“What did you think of Twelfth Night?” I asked.

“I haven’t read it,” Horace said cheerily. “But I’ve seen

the film.” “Oh, OK. What did you think of that?”

Horace stared at me as if this question couldn’t possibly

have been anticipated. “To be honest, I wasn’t really

watching.” I quickly learnt that this was Horace’s modus

operandi — offering some bold but foolish response,

then capitulating the moment it was questioned.

As he began to write an essay plan, Horace was

brimming with self-belief. Then I asked if he wanted to

include some quotes. “It’s fine,” he said. “My style is

more utopian.” “Utopian? What do you mean?” Horace

looked flabbergasted. “To be honest, I’m not sure.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if Horace’s concerned

new teacher was simply the first person in his life to call

If only I’d known that the answer to

all those essays I’d tortured myself

over while at school was to leave

the hard part to a paid professional

28 • The Sunday Times Magazine

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