I am also a snob. It's hereditary. I come from a family who can't help but be impressed by largesse - whether it be in terms of title, estate or education. Accordingly, a frisson of anticipation accompanied me to Dolphin School near Reading, a frisson which grew fizzier as I passed the road sign to the school, nowhere else, just the school. This school has its own road sign! Now there's posh.
All the hallmarks of exclusivity and fee-paying were visible on our arrival. Neatly games kitted little girls were playing netball on a pitch surrounded by 4 x 4s, mothers in plaid game fair style jackets and hats, and Dubarrys, wildly expensive leather boots which double as wellies when necessary. I know that because I have a pair myself.
John and I were shown into Reception where we signed ourselves in as guests and read the plethora of plaudits about the school "which had been left out on a little table for us to read." (That is a quote from the show, incidentally, not just an arbitrary use of inverted commas for the hell of it.) "Then I realised I hadn't been to the loo since lunchtime." (Another quote from the show.) I asked the very nice receptionist where the Ladies was and was directed to a door bearing "a picture of a girl in a silver sticky out skirt" (yes, another quote), a picture of a man in silver jeans, and a picture of a male or female in a silver wheelchair on it. Funny that. I've never thought of it before. There's never a special sign or even room for disabled women as opposed to men. All disabled people have to share the same loo. Someone should complain. What's good enough for the Disabled at the Dolphin School is good enough for the rest of us too and it turned out that that was the only loo in Reception, hence all three signs on one door. This discovery came as a kind of surprise, because I was kind of half expecting there to be lots of different loos, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I was far more engaged by my habitual worry that I might pull the emergency cord instead of the light switch, a worry which almost, but not quite, puts me off using Disabled loos entirely when there is a choice.
The performance space was cavernous - a massive area which housed exhibitions of work and foreign trips, musical instruments and stands, comfy chairs, dining tables and gymnastic equipment. Practice rooms behind were stacked with pianos and percussion instruments. This was one nice School.
The hospitality matched the surroundings and John and I were plied with cups of tea as we set up for the show. Inevitably, therefore, it wasn't long before I needed the loo again. We were a good long walk from Reception so I asked where was the nearest. Here there were two loos: Disabled men and women had to share with able bodied women, but able bodied men were provided with facilities of their own. What an interesting distinction to draw. What quality do able bodied women possess that their male counterparts lack which renders them more suitable to share toilet facilities with the Disabled? Actually I can think of quite a few. I don't mean to be sexist, but men's toilet habits being what they are, it was probably deemed kinder not to inflict them on the Disabled. The architect must have been a woman. But then again, maybe not ... there was no mirror. No woman would decide that a mirror is unnecessary in the loo. It certainly is necessary if you're about to go on stage in front an audience of 70 or so people. I looked around for something with the power to reflect. There was only one thing so it would have to do. I bent over the loo handle and put on my make up. It wasn't easy. Would have been a hell of a lot more difficult if I'd been in a wheelchair.
But this isn't criticism. Children at the Dolphin School clearly have a wonderful education with all that music, travel and space in which to learn. If they grow up not needing to look in a mirror every time they go to the loo, that wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it?
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