The 6 types of mothers you’ll meet at private schools – including the stressed parent popping Class A drugs in her chocolate: ANNETTE KELLOW

To the untrained eye, the yummy mummies found at the gates of private schools look the picture of perfection.

They’ve got the high-flying husband, the house in Chelsea (and let’s not forget the second home in the countryside), the designer gear and luxury gym membership to boot.

Their children are always at one of London’s or the Home Counties’ top prep schools, of which training for this naturally starts from the age of two, with additional tutors, sport and music lessons added to the mix.

All that and more would fool anyone into thinking they’ve got their lives effortlessly put together.

But fear not, I’m here to tell you how far from the truth that is for so many. My eight-year-old son Felix recently joined an independent school, one known for its creative atmosphere and strong traditional values.

Thankfully, the parents I’ve met so far all seem friendly and calm, and nothing like the private school mothers and fathers I’ve come across while living in west London.

I’ve discovered that for every hard-working parent who sacrifices to put their children’s education first, there are many more who don’t blink an eye at the term’s hefty invoice.

And while I may not be anywhere near their tax bracket, I’d be best to steer clear of some of their traits. That’s because all that glitters is not always gold. 

From taking Class A drugs to buying black market Ozempic, I know exactly what goes on behind closed doors and I’m happily lifting the lid on their perfect personas… 

Spoiler: it will make you feel so much better about your own parenting.

The wine mum who’s also on mushroom chocolate 

The private school wine mum always turns up to the school gates with a green juice and the latest Lululemon gear. 

For most of the morning she’ll be hitting Equinox, followed by a hyperbaric oxygen chamber and a cheeky manicure. But come 3.30pm, and the innocence turns rather naughty.

I met one wine mum through another parent friend who lives a couple of roads away from me. I thought she was teetotal when I was invited to her spacious Chelsea home after school, and assumed the children would play in her vast garden while we’d make small talk about Farrow & Ball.

But suddenly the after-school snack turned into a massive bottle of champagne for ‘us busy mummies’.

She started guzzling the Pol Roger nine to the dozen, stating that it has zero calories so it flows with ‘our Keto diet’. I thought better than to tell her I have neither the bank balance nor the time to follow a food plan.

Once she began to unwind, she began confiding how everything is ‘just so pressurised’. There are the holidays to book, the London Airbnbs to manage, then she was deliberating if she should rejoin the workforce again or just reside in her current stay-at-home wife role.

Then out came a bar of ‘special chocolate’ to cope with merely talking about all the stresses. I declined as I had no clue what it was, nor did my other parent pal.

I was later told on the way home that it was psilocybin chocolate, a microdose of magic mushroom that is meant to help with relaxation. Although made from natural sources, it is still classified as a Class A drug in the UK. I was glad I’d said no.

The mother who pretends she’s aristocracy

When running in private school circles, it’s rather easy to come across a story about someone’s aristocrat heritage, or their husbands. But beware, as sometimes it’s all rather a large tale, a lie told to increase their standing amongst their peers.

Indeed, I met one mother at a book launch and was instantly bedazzled by her jewellery. We soon got chatting about her Irish blue-blooded family who had resided between Mayfair and County Clare for centuries.

Although our children are different ages, we seemed to have some common ground, even though she has a vast property portfolio and has sent all of her children to the best private schools in London.

But things started to unravel over her favourite Battenberg cake. Firstly, at Fortnum’s, then suspiciously at the Wolseley, she conveniently forgot her wallet. I dutifully footed the bill each time. It seemed clear the aristocrat mother had the money so what was she playing at?

Shortly after, an old friend heard her accent on one of my videos and said: ‘That’s not thoroughbred.’ I had no idea what he was referring to, believing he was just being a pompous so-and-so.

But at a children’s birthday party, her unwittingly innocent daughter told me she was born in Australia. When I queried this with the mother, she flat out denied it.

‘We went there on holiday a lot when she was tiny; she’s confused,’ she trilled. But the next day. I decided to do some ‘research’. 

A quick Google search and it wasn’t long before I discovered an article from decades ago declaring her firmly Australian roots and that she had moved to London to pursue an artistic career. A touch of Irish heritage was obviously good for the tale.

I decided not to say anything, yet have no idea why she would deny being from Down Under. If she can send her children to prep, then all must be fine. And what exactly is wrong with another shrimp on the barbie?

The private school mother buying Ozempic

Ozempic mothers always looks trim and prim. At gatherings they exude that artificial glow, but insist it’s all down to celery juice and Pilates.

One day, I was chatting to one mother about a parent who’s on jabs – and suddenly she divulged that she’d tried to get them herself but failed miserably. 

‘But, why would you need them?’ I exclaimed. ‘Shh,’ she said. ‘It’s all maintenance!’ She shared that taking them in regular mini-dosages keeps an already svelte body even svelter. 

It apparently helps to stop her cravings for the cheese board at the charity events she attends with her CEO spouse.

She shared that she came up with a darker plan after she had tried Boots for her first supply of Mounjaro, but they rumbled her photoshopped application photos, especially as she’d tried to squidge her arms together to make them look bigger. She’d even sellotaped weights under her feet for the required scales photo.

After that, she disclosed that she’d resorted to speed-dialling someone she referred to as ‘Gianluca.’ Apparently he’s a local black market prescription dealer who mainly dishes out pharmaceuticals that doctors decline, including Valium, and of course, Mounjaro and Ozempic.

Now, she takes half the dose but claims it has the full effects, with her workouts topping up the rest. When I queried if that was legal, she mysteriously smiled and said: ‘Where’s the harm?’

The very tolerant spouse

The old adage goes: ‘Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards’ – and very tolerant mothers know this only too well. 

I met one through another private school mother who both send their children to a 200-year-old prep in Westminster. Word on the street is that her husband coughs up the cash for all the pleasantries she could ask for, including the fees for their four children’s schooling.

She has holidays, cars, clothes, handbags, and two properties, including a mansion flat in Belgravia and a house in the Cotswolds.

The snag? He’s been caught more than once in rather compromising situations. A burner phone was discovered, and some receipts for duo meals in Soho, all of which he, of course, refutes.

But the tolerant mother doesn’t mind too much. She doesn’t get begged for bedroom antics any more, and he’s so paranoid about his social standing that she’s confident he’ll never divorce.

When I heard this, I was pretty shocked. Surely, that’s not the basis for a happy marriage? Surely it would be better to just leave? But a mutual friend stated matter-of-factly: ‘Honestly, do you think she’d have all that if she left?’

I had to admit there was some truth in it. My decision was finalised on a recent trip to the Peter Jones cafe in Sloane Square when I overheard two 80-year-old ladies gossiping.

‘With my first husband the writing was on the wall from the start. It was obvious he was cheating,’ mused one coiffed dame. ‘But did you ever feel sorry for him? People say they sometimes do.’

She replied: ‘With the lifestyle I had, why would I feel sorry for him? I just turned a blind eye.’

The mother who would never admit to hiring staff

You’ll spot these types of parents as they’ll always have a spotless house, an exercised child, homework delivered early, and the dog walked four times a day.

They’ll tell everyone they love being a stay-at-home mother – but the only traditional approach being followed is husband footing the bill.

Their secret weapon for perfectionism? A full household of staff, including chef, nanny, cleaner and PA.

I became friends with this type of housekeeper mother in Holland Park when our children were four years old. She immediately asked me which private school I’d signed my child up for, and I rummaged around for excuses, saying my local church primary is the beacon of community spirit.

In her first text to me, she sounded stressed, saying: ‘I can’t meet this week, I’m having to use agency staff, zero initiative.’ A few weeks later, life was back on track, and we met up a few times.

Yet at a playdate in the park with some other local mothers, she told them she does all the work herself and that she’s been ‘flat out’. Knowing the size of her hallway, which would probably take me a week to clean alone, I didn’t know how the others didn’t question her.

But alone later, she divulged that she gives her staff a lovely room in the family’s iceberg basement and that it’s a great arrangement as they are paid well and have everything they need.

She draws the line at letting them do the school run though, and confided that she always does the drop-offs in the family Range Rover, as it’s super important to show up for her ‘small people’.

But all that’s lost on the other mothers, who innocently presume she doesn’t stop all day. They believe she’s getting up at 5am, performing miracles, then turning up at the private school gates with her domestic goddess cookies, secretly made by her chef.

The competitive private school mother

These mothers act nonchalant at the gates of their children’s private schools, but have secret itineraries of your entire lives. They’re the first to bring in sugar-free homemade oat bars to school and know how to work a room.

Their Instagram bio states: ‘Interiors, London and the Cotswolds’, while all of the pictures of their homes are incredible, with Sanderson wallpaper and shots of them picking up sideboards at auction houses, but they say they can’t post any of their clients because of the NDAs.

They lead a busy life; facials, functions and flow yoga being the main culprits – yet make it look ever so easy. I met a competitive private school mother at a friend’s garden party, where we were told to all bring a dish.

I brought a pasta salad, thinking it would be good for the children, but Competitive Mum looked visibly shocked at my offering. ‘We’re a gluten-free family,’ she explained, then quizzed me on whether I knew the downside to ultra-processed foods.

I stuffed it into the fridge thinking that would be the end of it, but after I started drinking a coffee the competitive mother hadn’t quite finished. ‘It’s the middle of summer, and you’re having a latte,’ she gasped.

I tried to explain that I enjoy a coffee with my lunch and even had one at a Mayfair restaurant a couple of days ago, but she just laughed. ‘Bet they were tittering behind your back! The only time you can have coffee at lunch is in St Tropez.’

The rest of the afternoon consisted of what I would call one uppers, all of which I could never compete.

What music is your child playing at school? Where are your holiday homes? How many hours a week do you get the tutor in for? All zero, of course, and even after trying to act normal I could feel the ground swallowing me up.

But that’s all part of Competitive Mum’s persona; she has the biggest birthday bashes, a hectic schedule of extracurricular activities and loves to tell you how little Alfred’s doing Mandarin ‘just for fun’.