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I return to London from Paris yesterday accompanied by Gareth, a youngster who invest in private equity funds for a wealthy family. Gareth graduated Cambridge five-years ago, studying physics and, while clearly a brainiac, he is not polished as many of our peers (no Hermes tie nor tailoredsuit). Gareth grew up outside Newcastle and went to a state secondary school (note, dear reader, that less than 5% of British children educated privately yet 50% of Oxbridge from private secondaries, a figure once much higher). Gareth notes his first day at Cambridge talking to some guy who simply walked off mid-sentence asking "where are the privates anyway?" The worst of Britain's class system.

Eitan pokes his head out the window to bark some orders while Sonnet and I do the yard-work. Eitan allowed to "chill" this afternoon following a break-down post football and pre-tutor which was moved to today from Monday so we can celebrate Passover with friends (got that?). Eitan is working hard and has high expectations for himself and sometimes over-loaded. I give him a big hug and shoo Madeleine away (she being curious). Sonnet makes him a snack then off we go - fortunately his tutor sympathetic and aware of his mood; she takes me aside to say: "he is a joy to teach." Later, in a better mood, the boy (in gym kit) runs 100 back-and-forths in the living room exclaiming: "I cannot wait to be an adult so I can train [for football] all the time." Did I mention he has high standards?