I have ranted long and hard and often about my daughters' school's stringent and often petty uniform policy on the blog. I'm not going to stop though ....
TeenTwin2, having landed herself a part-time job, got her very first wage packet at the weekend and, being the kind of girl she is (a spendthrift) was down the shops at the first available opportunity to splash the cash on some new clothes but particularly on a pair of black trousers for school.
In Year 13 and the last few months of her A levels, TeenTwin2 and her fellow students are allowed to wear what the Academy like to call "business wear" in recognition of their level in the school, growing maturity and increasing independance.
So TeenTwin2 bought a pair of slim, black capri-style trousers from the Tu range at Sainsbury's happy in the knowledge that a large proportion of her fellow students, and teachers, were wearing similar styles.
As she's spent the past 18 months wearing teeny, tiny, stretchy skirts that contain the same amount of fabric as an elf's handkerchief and keep getting lost in the wash, it was an emotional moment for me when she came home with so MUCH material in one item.
She went to school wearing her new trousers. She was wafted through the obligatory daily uniform check on the gate without a qualm in the morning but at break-time she was hauled aside by a couple of teachers in the canteen who told her that the trousers were entirely unsuitable and that she had to go home and change. Now.
|The offending article.|
Disclaimer, no stomachs were originally exposed in the wearing of these trousers.
The problem? Her brand new, bought with her first wages, trousers were exposing an inch of ankle. Yes, a whole inch of naked ankle.
TeenTwin2 in the midst of A level exam prep and rehearsals for an up coming drama performance wasn't keen on either missing her lessons or walking a mile and a half home and back again to change a pair of trousers for the sake of an inch of exposed ankle. She'd already been in school a couple of hours, no-one had been noticeably corrupted. Or swooned.
She asked if she could stay for the rest of the day and promised not to wear them again. They said no, and not nicely, and sent her home anyway.
She walked home in a sudden downpour of rain, humiliated, mortified, and embarrassed. Perhaps it was fortuitous that there was rain because she was sobbing. Not a thing she does lightly or often, on a scale of 1) Dead hamster to 10) Jedward being kicked off the X Factor, she was at Sob Level 11 and utterly defeated with the unfairness of it all.
But she is not her mother's daughter for nothing.
At home she dragged her teeniest, tiniest skirt out of the washing basket. The skirt that is the shortest skirt of all the shortest skirts. The one she'd worn to work on Saturday night. The night co-incidentally, in the bar where she works, they advertise as "Sexy Saturday" and the bar staff are encouraged to dress appropriately. She got that skirt. It reeked of vodka, Jagermeister and three kinds of lager but, still, she changed into that skirt.
Then she went back to school.
And her skirt?
That skirt was perfectly acceptable.
*ROLLS. ALL. THE. EYES.*