The School Test

I try to embrace the more tedious aspects of my adopted homeland as well as the jolly ones. I really do. But I struggle with the German approach to starting school. Firstly, they try and put you off sending your child to school for as long as possible - motto, you only live once, let the kid enjoy his/her last year in kindergarten. Are you really sure you want to push him/her. Because those three hours a day can be very taxing.

There is, however, as can only be expected in such a civilised country, a cut-off point where Junior simply has to go and no amount of pleading or cajoling will help you because it's the LAW. (I've never actually heard of a parent who pleads to keep their child at home, but there must be some, just as there must be people who like the band Roxette.) But even though it is compulsory, as in Titus' case (he's practically teenage compared to the age British children start school) they throw in one last challenge, just to keep you on your toes and make life just that tad more difficult. This hurdle is known as the 'Schuluntersuchung' or school test, and as far as I can see it is a way of creating work for doctors, psychologists and social workers who would otherwise be out of a job or at home knitting. Rafts of information are required and complex tasks must be completed by the child in order to get the go ahead, and even when you do and everything appears to be in order, they often like to point out some deficit in Junior's physical condition/speech/upbringing, just to stop the parents getting too complacent.

You might have guessed by now that today is the day for Titus, and in one hour I shall tootle along to the kindergarten with all his documentation and subject him and myself to interrogation - there will probably be a single, naked light bulb hanging down over a bare table and there will certainly be at least three people with clipboards. One will be wearing a white coat and at least two will have unisex, functional haircuts. They will regard me and my son as oddities, speaking as we do with British accents and little grammatical irregularities.

I know I sound terribly cynical. I am. Experience has taught me to expect the worst; not for me the joyful optimism of the uninitiated. I was once taken aside by Hedda's kindergarten teacher, up there in the wilds of northern Germany, as she had 'concerns' about my daughter's facial muscles, particularly those around the jaw. I had to struggle not to laugh. I humoured her, put my head on one side and asked her to explain herself more clearly, and perhaps give a reason for this physical deformity. Well, she said. I think it's because Hedda speaks too much English. Gosh, I replied, feeling my own cheeks and jaw in panic and mentally planning an emergency appointment at the local orthodontist. A solution was quickly offered, though. Hedda simply had to eat more carrots.

You probably think I'm joking. I swear this really happened. Up to that point I didn't know that being an English speaker was so hazardous. Being a positive kind of person, though, I use these experiences to the greater good, i.e. this morning, where forewarned is most definitely forearmed and I am prepared for them to say literally anything about my son's development, or lack of it. Don't worry about Titus, though. There is nothing he likes better than being prodded and poked by doctors and being the sole focus of attention. He was practically exploding with excitement this morning. So - let the fun begin!