The British love rules. I mean, really, really love their rules. 

As a friend pointed out, it was England that basically invented rules (see also: Magna Carta). Anyone who didn’t care to follow them either got shipped off to Australia or left to start some colonies across the pond.  

Which is why we’re not so keen on rules in America. Laws are fine, but rules? Nah, we’re the exception to the rule (see also: Texas).

Brits have rules for everything: setting up a bank account, buying a car, booking a slot for lunch at an Oxford college or checking out a book from the library. Breaking the rules comes with a steep penalty. No one here speeds (speed cameras) or overloads passengers into a car (high fine), and I’ve seen exactly one person pass in the slow lane.

Nowhere are rules more apparent than in applying for schools. I had been warned, before moving here, that the process of getting our kids into school could be long, tedious and full of procedural bureaucracy, somewhat like a session of Parliament.

To enter school here, you must apply early and often. You must have a signed lease or purchase agreement. 

But oh, there’s a catch. Even if you live in the correct district, your child might not get in. There are strict rules about class size. In this case, your child is put on the waiting list and sent to another school, sometimes four or five miles in the opposite direction. 

None of our children were enrolled on the first pass. All were placed on the waiting list. By some miracle, three of the four got in just days before the schools shut for the summer.

Addison, our 15-year-old, was the only one left waiting. He was offered a spot at a school outside of the city, a 40-minute bus ride away.

We rejected the alternate school, and sent in an appeal form. The school year began, and we waited. 

And waited.

And waited.

Four weeks into the term, we still had no news. I called the school daily. I emailed the appeals team daily. I marched down to the city offices, as brashly American as can be, to check on his status. I became quite chummy with the receptionist, Val, but it didn’t do any good. There was no movement.

Thankfully, I had friends who had trod this path. They encouraged me to be patient. I began to see this for what it was — a faceoff. The council kept urging us to send Addison to the alternate school, but we held strong. They were testing to see how much we wanted it. This was a battle of wills, and we were determined to win.

Finally, on Sept. 28, we received word that Addison would appear before the appeals board in two days. 

The council sent us a packet of information. We would go before an independent board made up of three individuals, M. Hocking, M. Lewis, and P. Bean.

Mr. Bean! This was getting more exciting by the day. We formed our strategy and prepared ourselves.

The morning of the appeal came. We rode the bus to the council headquarters, a sort of miniature castle tucked right next to the old Oxford prison. The small sign inside said that on this spot in 1577, 300 people perished from the Black Assize, a form of Gaol Fever. It seemed a foreboding beginning.

A woman greeted us and explained the process. The school would present its case first for why they simply couldn’t allow another student. The independent board would then determine if the school had a valid argument. If the school won, we would present our own case, and the board would give its final decision.  

We entered the room. The three members of the board introduced themselves. Unfortunately, M. Bean, or any Bean, failed to show. 

We met the man representing the school, a Mr. Darlington, who began to unfold his case. The school had too many students and too few teachers. Each class was at capacity, the resources were spread thin, etc. 

As he droned on, I felt a glimmer of hope. His heart wasn’t in it. There was no conviction in his speech, no real attempt to persuade. Poor Mr. Darlington was just doing his job. He was following the rules. 

I could see from the body language of the council that they felt the same way. The argument was a weak one.

The council asked a few pointed questions. We followed up with a few of our own, after which we were told to wait outside while the council made a decision.

We went into the hall with Mr. Darlington, who turned out to be a lovely chap from York. He ticked off a few must-see sites in London and encouraged us to see all that we could of England. 

In minutes, we were back in the room for the verdict.

“We’ve determined,” said M. Lewis, “that the school has not adequately proven its case. Therefore, Addison, you are admitted to the school.”

I suppressed an American whoop of joy and smiled demurely.

M. Lewis turned to Mr. Darlington and offered an apology. 

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Mr. Darlington gave a conciliatory smile. “I thought it might go that way.”

I was relieved, and also exasperated. So much work! So much worry and stress and toil, all for a simple formality, a check in the box. Addison would be starting school a full five weeks late, racing to catch up. But what was to be done?

We thanked the council and gave Mr. Darlington, our new friend, a farewell handshake. We went off to celebrate our win in British style, with a spot of tea. Because, well, that’s the rule in England, and I’m learning to live with it.

Tiffany Gee Lewis is a freelance journalist and children’s book author. Based in the Pacific Northwest, she and her family are on a year-long sabbatical in Oxford, England.

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