The Times - UK (2022-01-13)

the times | Thursday January 13 2022 3

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Sitting alone in my curious field

hospital room, raising a glass of

quasi-contraband red, talking to my

family and loved ones over Zoom and

eating a Christmas dinner very kindly

cooked by a Thai chef who had only a

loose sense of the composition of the

meal (was I expecting “two types of

sauerkraut” and “squidgy potato

dumplings”? No! Was I deeply grateful

for them? Yes!), I had by far the

strangest December 25 of my life.

Freedom eve

I packed my things and reflected on

my holiday within a holiday — an

endless expanse of time that had

somehow flown by, a never-to-be-

repeated chapter of my life that

had been harrowing and, at

times, strangely fun (all in all, a

bit like going to university).

Low moments? Plenty. I lost

half a day recording myself on

a smartphone app, attempting

to form a one-man a cappella

group, the Quaran-Tones. The

hospital kindly agreed to wash my

clothes, only to obliterate them by

using the universe’s strongest known

bleach. I’m ashamed to say that I used

the medium of Instagram stories to

document my incarceration. I’m more

ashamed to say that the collected saga

is some of my proudest work (it’s saved

for posterity at @maxolesker).

There were profound moments too.

A beloved great-uncle died. The night

Top: Max Olesker and,

below, his “field

hospital” — the

Aura Samui Best

Beach Hotel

before my release I dressed in my

formal suit, joined my family on Zoom

and we recited kaddish, the Jewish

prayer for the dead. He was a suave

and worldly Parisian who lived until

he was 90 and who experienced

genuine hardship while hiding from

the Nazis in caves during the Second

World War. I remembered him fondly

and felt acutely aware, in the grand

scheme of things, of how lucky I was.

And then my ten days were up.

The return...

After my release by the kindly

hazmat-suited health authorities, I

extended my stay in Thailand on

the basis that, if I were to fly

directly back to work, I would

quite simply disintegrate.

I write this looking out at

the lush, verdant mountains

of Koh Samui, its flawless

white beaches and brilliant

blue skies. An island doing

its best to find its equilibrium

during unceasingly strange

and disorientating times.

After a week of relaxation,

decompression and drinks that I

don’t have to use biblical citations to

acquire (or have smuggled in in a

Listerine bottle), I’ll return home with

a twinkle in my eye and a tale to tell.

And a vow never to set foot within

500m of a plane for the rest of my life.

*Also, to be clear, I was utterly,

pathetically co-operative at all times.

GETTY IMAGES

I was shameless about

grabbing a school place

A father of two writes

the end of it. On the day my

Maddy started, officials from the

local council were in the school

playground. In the feverish

atmosphere neighbour had been

denouncing neighbour. The council

had heard that the parents of at

least two new children had used a

false address for their applications.

They were sent home.

That did not deter me. When it was

time for secondary education I was

ready to play the game. I chose my

school and rented a flat in the

catchment area, although we never

lived in it. Even I was surprised that

the authorities weren’t suspicious.

After all, it was a one-bedroomed

flat — how did they imagine a family

of four lived there? I paid the council

tax — expensive, but a bargain

compared with the £200,000

premium people pay on average for

homes near good schools in London

(it’s £83,000 elsewhere). And then we

applied and... oh dear.

The previous year’s financial crash

had wrecked the family finances of

many and there was a rush from

private education into the state

sector. The flat I had rented was at

the end of a street on the southern

boundary of the catchment area. We

were in trouble. The school even

printed a map that looked like the

area of impact of a recent

earthquake. But instead of marking

zones where no survivors or

infrastructure were to be found, it

showed areas from which very few

applicants were successful. We were

in that zone.

In the “first round” allocation

Matilda didn’t get a place. I went to

pieces. I drank a lot. I went out at

night measuring distances and trying

to invent new cut-throughs — most

of them over people’s garden fences

and through their living rooms.

In the end I became shameless.

I wrote to the school and told them

that both my daughters had suffered

mental health issues owing to the

stress of not being allocated a place

in their local school. I added that

both had been designated “gifted and

talented” at primary school (true for

one, not for the other), played the

violin to a high standard and that

I had been an active member of the

volunteering and fundraising

community and thus had valuable

skills to bring to bear in the

organisation of fêtes.

I never got a reply. But Matilda got

a place. That summer I was in charge

of the school tombola.

*Names have been changed

H

ave you seen the Daniel

Day-Lewis film There Will

Be Blood? It captures a

community succumbing to

avarice and entitlement

when it discovers oil in its midst. It

reminds me of how I felt when we

discovered a very good London

primary school near where we lived.

We were living in East Dulwich, in

the southeast of the city, with our

two daughters. The local primary

was a four-minute bike ride away and

my eldest, Matilda*, got a place

there. She loved the tree-lined walk

to school. She loved bringing the

class bear “Rufus” home.

I don’t know what happened in the

intervening two years before my

youngest, Maddy, applied. Word

seemed to get out that “oil” had been

discovered locally, ie an excellent

free-at-the-point-of-use primary

education. Families swarmed to

the area. That 0.4-mile bike ride

counted for nothing. She didn’t

get a place.

I was devastated. Every morning

Matilda met her friends outside

our gate and off they wobbled in

their backpacks like little

astronauts. Why was my youngest

being denied this opportunity?

No wonder 25 per cent of parents

in a survey by the property

platform Zoopla admit to bending

the rules to secure their children a

place at a good school. Seventeen

per cent admit to lying on their

applications. I understand it

because, although logic tells you

there are plenty of other decent

schools, once those territorial and

parental instincts kick in, you are

ready to claw someone’s eyes out for

a seat in that classroom.

That’s how the local conflict

started. I discovered that a family

on our road living six doors further

away from the school had got

a place for their son. How was

that possible?

“Look where they go every Sunday

morning,” a local ally advised me.

The school reserved half of its

intake for “Faithful and Regular

Worshippers of Christian Churches’’.

For the really committed parent

these “foundation places” were a

convenient back door. I appealed

against the decision not to give

Maddy a place.

We weren’t claiming a foundation

place, but simply on grounds of

proximity. The school sent me its

official measurements showing that

the school was a 0.5-mile drive from

my front door. Bingo! We didn’t

drive. We walked or cycled, so I got

hold of one of those measuring

wheels on a pole. The school had

failed to take into account a

cut-through shaving 0.1 miles off

the journey. Maddy was in.

But with that came a form of

survivor’s guilt — what about all

the others forced to drive their

children across the borough?

And what a ludicrous and damaging

way of launching our children

into wider society. The whole thing

was just horrible. And that wasn’t

e t c g M o t a b

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p t p p a b t s p

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own

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After my re

hazmat-su

extend

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Aft

decomp

ddon’t have

acquire (or h

Listerinebo

Samui? It’s scary

The dream:

Thailand

The reality: Koh

Samui hospital

Christmas

dinner

The upgrade: ‘the

field hospital’

GETTY IMAGES (POSED BY MODELS)