Wealth Blog | First day at boarding school

Glancing around the Cathay Pacific lounge at London Airport last week, I realised I wasn’t alone. Grown-ups who looked like they were usually perfectly calm and collected were taking anxious phone calls and gulping large gin and tonics. Typical conversations went: “Yes, he/she was fine, no, no tears, don’t worry, half term is only a few weeks away.” They too had just deposited little Englebert or Alopecia in an expensive British detention centre, otherwise known as boarding school. This group of nouveau pauvre Hong Kong parents now numbers 5,000 and is forking out about pounds 30,000 a year per child for five years. And that's for a mid-ranking public school, as British private secondary schools are confusingly called. Really posh ones like Millfield or Harrow cost much more. Add on pounds 1,000 for uniform and more for sports gear, dental and BUPA. And then, the “extras,” such as guitar and golf lessons. Thank goodness my daughter won a scholarship, which lightens the financial load somewhat.

Dodgy mobile phone signal

Nevertheless, I am officially Mean Mummy, having vetoed an iphone: a landline phonecard being way cheaper. “But everyone has a smartphone Mum,” she wailed. “There’s only a mobile phone signal in the middle of the rugby pitch, so I’d hardly use it,” she said, as if that proved her point. So then you don’t need one, I parried, thinking this school sounded very attractive indeed. She changed the subject. “But you can bring your own horse. AND you can keep your own ferret. For rabbiting,” she said, helpfully. I began to wonder just what sort of establishment Grandma had chosen. I had visited Milton Abbey School only once, fleetingly.

Trunks and Tuck boxes

With thoughts flitting between Hogwarts and Mallory Towers, we rocked up to the enormous historic edifice, its chapel dating back to the early 10th century, all set in rolling Dorset parkland. It was a far cry from the YMCA Christian College in Tung Chung.

Friendly fathers helped lug the trunk and tuck box up to the bright airy dormitory, kitted out IKEA-style. If one of them no-showed, I wondered if they’d take me instead. The house parents greeted us warmly in the big kitchen– where girls can cook and entertain friends, no less – and politely cautioned against contacting our little dears before they had settled in. Homesickness spreads like wildfire, we learned. I asked my daughter if she thought she’d feel homesick. She gave me the 13-year-old “Oh Mum” eye roll-plus-sigh and replied: “of course not, think of it like a long sleepover,” and reminded me she'd "sort of" be bored at her previous school.