Since it’s National Schools Regatta this weekend, I thought I’d have a rummage around in the archive and dig out a guest post I wrote for another site a few years ago. It’s a bit unkind – all good stereotypes are – and I know (having been a rowing mother myself for a while) that most rowing mothers are not like this. But I bet you won’t have to go too far this weekend to find one who is.
This will be Annabel’s last visit to the National Schools Regatta and she can’t say she’ll miss the dreary trips to Nottingham.
At least ‘Mima’s school puts on a good show. The turretted marquees always look terribly jolly, and the lunch has been a lot better since Hugo’s brother started providing the venison from the Estate. Times are hard, though: the champagne at the Headmaster’s reception was distinctly inferior this year.
Annabel simply can’t understand why so many other schools just don’t make the effort. She took Bertie for a walk along the bank and had a good nose around the 2nd Division encampments; gosh, it was grim. Mouldy tents, parents in Gore-Tex eating limp sandwiches and drinking tea out of polystyrene cups – some of them hadn’t even bothered to bring a marquee. ‘Mima was furious when she was beaten last year by one of the oik crews. They didn’t even have onesies, for God’s sake – no team spirit.
Of course, Annabel ought to enjoy the rowing. It’s in the blood; Daddy was in the Boat Race when he was up at Oxford, though she can’t bring him along since he tried to pinch the coach’s bottom last year and told her what he’d like to do to her with a Macon blade. The first sign of dementia, Mummy said, but Annabel’s not so sure.
In truth the only bit that Annabel really enjoys is watching the teenage boys with their lycra rolled down to reveal smooth skin and taut muscles. Looking at Hugo in layer upon layer of corduroy and tweed, Annabel supposes that he must have looked like that once, but she can barely remember it.
Anyway, they won’t be coming back next year. ‘Mima has announced that she’s giving up rowing at the end of term. Ever since she caught a disastrous crab on the Friday, her crew have refused to speak to her and she’s been curled up in the back of the Range Rover, crying and refusing to eat. Hugo tried to tempt her out with a venison roll and the promise of a new onesie, but she wouldn’t budge.
When the racing is over, some of the keeno parents stay to help clear up, but Annabel and Hugo make their excuses. Nottingham is ghastly enough without having to skivvy as well, and ‘Mima has got even more sulky now that her iPad has run out of juice.
Still, there’s always Henley to look forward to. You don’t even have to pretend to be interested in the rowing there.
