"You won't believe what just happened - I have a story for the ages to tell you!"
I'd just bumped into our friend Ash down the block from the exclusive Manhattan preschool we'd had an interview at.
Before I could elaborate, my wife caught up to me on the street and immediately asked: "It went ok, right?"
I did my best to keep a straight face. Ash, sensing drama, was already starting to smirk in anticipation.
The look on Ash's face gave it away. My wife's eyes darted between us: "What? What happened?"
"Do you realise what you just said in there?" I asked.
Ash couldn't help herself: "This I have to hear."
When we moved to New York in the winter of 2013, we did so on somewhat of a whim, amidst the whirlwind of being new parents. Our rental apartment - which we saw for the first time when we walked into it on the day of our arrival - was in a small converted factory building on Tribeca's Greenwich Street. The building only had six apartments, two on each floor, with a toy shop occupying the ground floor commercial space.
By virtue of the small number of neighbours, we quickly got to know everyone. Luckily, the family in the apartment above us was an American woman married to a British man, though they were some fifteen years older than us. It was enough of a connection to strike up a relationship quickly.
Like me, the British guy had spent a chunk of his career in finance, whilst his wife had been an active philanthropist and community builder.
Their children were 12 and 10 at the time, so they marvelled over the smallness of our five-month-old daughter and the memories she brought back for them.
As we settled into the rhythms of our new life in New York, our neighbours became a comforting source of not only friendship, but also advice and support as we figured things out.
Katie had been on the board of a private preschool in the neighbourhood, Washington Market School. Whilst her kids were long gone from there and her day-to-day involvement had receded, she still had strong ties with both the founder and the parents who supported it.
Over drinks one evening, Katie explained that preschool applications in our neighbourhood were very competitive. Even though Lulu was only six months old, we should begin thinking about where we wanted to send her. Katie offered to make an introduction to the school's founder.
We never took her up on the introduction. But when application windows opened, we let Katie know we'd applied - just in case her connections might help.
In an almost clichéd smoke-and-mirrors process, you didn't actually submit an application to the school. Instead, you had to apply to attend an in-person tour. After which, if deemed appropriate, you'd be invited to submit an application.
The bucket of opportunity and luck we'd been handed when we received this invitation to the tour was lost on us. So much so that even though I put it on a shared calendar with my wife, she didn't realise the significance until the morning of, when I reminded her she was expected to come along.
It was an incredibly harsh winter that year. The morning of our tour brought clear blue skies and crisp, cold air, whilst the previous day's heavy snowfall lay shovelled and ploughed to the side of the roads and pavements.
Bundled up in our newly bought Canada Goose coats - a necessary investment after eight years of London's mild winters - we walked the few blocks to the school's main campus on Hudson Street.
We were greeted in the lobby by Amy, the admissions director - an Australian woman who'd previously been a parent at the school. On our tour were three other couples, all sporting the same slightly nervous and unsure faces as us.
After awkwardly hanging our bulky coats on a makeshift coat rack - using hangers far too small and clearly intended for infant coats - Amy told us to make our way through to an adjacent room where she'd explain the schedule for the morning.
This was the moment I got my first signal that things might evolve differently than I'd expected. Whilst I flopped down in a seat towards the back, my wife walked past me and claimed a spot front and centre, perching eagerly on the edge of her seat.
Flashbacks to our time together on the JP Morgan Training Programme - and her eagerness to answer questions and be a star student - flooded back.
Amy explained that after this brief introduction, we'd walk over to the secondary campus on Duane Street, where we'd each take turns sitting in on a class. After which, each couple would have a chance to meet with board members and a current parent. My wife nodded aggressively, making periodic "mm-hmm" sounds.
True to form, when Amy asked if there were any questions, my wife's hand shot up. I have no idea what she asked. I only remember it being another data point in a pattern I was seeing with respect to her excitement and over-eagerness.
With the briefing finished, Amy told us to retrieve our coats from the lobby and walk over to the other campus. Rather than ditch my wife, I let the other couples filter out before me, hanging back to accompany her and temper her enthusiasm.
This is where I should mention that after ten years together, I can say with confidence that my wife's ability to identify accents is roughly on par with a house brick's.
To my horror, as I hung back, I could see my wife also hanging back to make small talk with Amy as she walked out.
After initially asking about the ages of Amy's kids and where they were in school now, I heard my wife ask Amy if that was an Australian accent she could hear.
For a moment, I internally chided myself for judging my wife. Perhaps I'd totally misread the situation. Perhaps today she was absolutely on her game.
Amy confirmed she was indeed from Australia. My wife asked where she was from and how long she'd been in New York, with a follow-up question about how often she went back.
By now, we were back in the lobby where the other couples were silently putting their coats back on and zipping up.
Having heard how infrequently Amy was able to get back to Australia - her kids being so busy here in New York - my wife lamented that she'd never been to Australia and really wanted to go, but couldn't.
Of course, this prompted Amy to ask what was stopping her.
After living in London for eight years, my wife had begun developing a British sense of banter. Unfortunately, her judgement of where on the scale to pitch said banter was still being calibrated (it still is to this day!).
With a half chuckle, my wife responded, "Well, Morgan spent his year out in Australia playing rugby and partying. I'm worried about how many little Morgans we might run into if we went down there."
My jaw dropped, and I looked first at my wife, who was laughing nervously. Then at Amy, whose face was frozen in shock - a shock mirrored in the faces of every other couple in the lobby.
I broke the awkward silence by suggesting we should head out - time was against us. We walked over to the secondary campus in silence.
There was very little time to interact between couples as we cycled in and out of the classroom before being shuffled in front of the school board, where amongst other things we were challenged: "How would you add value to our community here at Washington Market School?" I had to pinch myself to remember that we were the ones assessing whether we should send our daughter to this institution for overpriced finger painting, not the other way around.
With our grilling complete, it was time to leave.
My wife said an enthusiastic goodbye to the admissions director, as I walked out of the expensive preschool quietly, head bowed.
The snow was piled up to my waist on the street corner, and the pavements were crunchy with the salt that had been put out in a desperate attempt to reduce the iciness that morning.
As I trudged along the street, almost wading through the slushy mess, my wife scurried to catch up. That's when I spotted Ash coming down the block. She was shocked to see us and asked where we'd been. I finally broke my silence:
"Oh, where have we been? Let me tell you a story."
Unsurprisingly, a few weeks later we received a letter from Washington Market School informing us that, unfortunately, our daughter had not been accepted into next year's incoming class, but wishing us all the best for the future.
By this point, our admissions howler had become quite the dinner party story.
The story developed into a hilarious kicker when, a few months later amidst the warmth of a New York spring evening, I walked past a restaurant on our street with outside dining and saw Amy, the admissions director. We locked eyes for a moment. She realised it was me, scowled, and turned her back!
Thankfully, we were able to find an amazing alternative in Tribeca Community School, where I took my wife to the admissions open house wearing a muzzle.
Here's what I didn't understand that morning, as I trudged through the slush with my head down: my wife wasn't wrong. She was just herself. In a room where everyone was performing - carefully measuring their words, projecting the right amount of interest without seeming desperate, treating a bloody preschool tour like a Goldman Sachs interview - she'd tried to show personality. To connect like a normal human being.
The joke misfired spectacularly, yes. But only because we were in a room that had forgotten how to be human. Where parents were meant to explain how they'd "add value" to a community of three-year-olds. Where the performance mattered more than the people performing it.
Ten years on, Lulu barely knows Washington Market School exists. She has no idea we were rejected by a preschool that charged more per year than my three years at university. And she's not quite old enough to hear this story - but I know that when she is she'll cry with laughter like her mum and I do every time we tell it. She'll see us turn one of our most embarrassing moments into one of our favourite stories about each other.
I am sure I missed out on untold networking opportunities and business deals as a result of not being accepted into the school, but the lifetime value of this story far exceeds any ROI that may have been missed!
