In single-sex schools girls don’t see themselves through boys’ eyes, says Mary Wakefield
I remember quite clearly the moment I first realised how very lucky I was to have been sent to a single-sex boarding school. It was the summer of 1989 and my friends, Becca, Ilona and I were all 13 and arm in arm, collapsing into shrieks of laughter at the drop of a hat. We were at the Newbury agricultural show, as I remember, and still young enough to be thrilled by the corporate goody bags from the Massey Ferguson stand and to think stickers, any stickers, even ones that said ‘Invest with Natwest’, were cool.
Down at the far end of the field there were a few shonky fairground rides, and it was there that this revelation took place. We were standing by ferris wheel, flicking our hair, when two boys from Radley sauntered up. Both boys were called Henry, it turned out, and both handsome with dark hair, though one Henry smelled strongly of patchouli oil. Having been as carefree as a young teen can be, I was now forced to see myself through the Henrys’ eyes. It wasn’t pretty. Becca was a young Catherine Zeta-Jones lookalike, with long tanned legs and hair Jilly Cooper would describe as a ‘raven mane’. Ilona was a blonde Canadian who radiated street-savvy cool. I, however, looked like Blackadder, in the first series: a short-arse with a bowl haircut and black rings around my eyes. The Henrys knew what they wanted. Would Becca and Ilona like to come and play? For the next few hours I sat sadly in the shadow of the big dipper, sometimes wondering how Becca could breathe with the patchouli Henry’s face squashed onto hers, sometimes counting my stickers.
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