Join our brand new columnist SOPHIE THORPE as she struggles through life as a posh girl.
There’s something that I think you all ought to know, and it’s likely to come out over the next few weeks, so I thought I might as well just get it out in the open now. I am very middle class. To most of you, I’m probably just plain posh.
I know it’s something that I should be ashamed of, but quite frankly I can’t be bothered to pretend. As soon as I open my mouth, my dark secret is revealed. Each clearly enunciated syllable announces to the world that I was privately educated, that I live in the south and not in the slums. My voice declares my social status before I can speak up for myself.
For years I tried to fight the stereotype: I claimed that I just spoke “properly”; I used to love being able to tell people that I had attended two state schools; I boasted that I was born in Manchester, hoping desperately to be accepted as “one of the people”. As a fresher, I even sampled life as a “lad”, drinking cheap booze and playing drinking games with the football crowd. I couldn’t keep it up for long, though, and my true identity was revealed before Michaelmas was out. No one was having any of it, and to be honest I can’t blame them. It was all a lie.
The thing is, I like the finer things in life and I don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t. I love expensive wine and extravagant meals. A day out at an art gallery, followed by a night at the ballet is ideal. It’s not like I don’t realise that I’ve been lucky in life. I know that I’ve been fortunate to come from a family where you can do these things occasionally (and I do mean occasionally, not every day), but why should I be bitter about it? My life’s great. Sorry if yours isn’t.
I’m prepared to take a certain amount of crap about my white collar world: it’s quite good banter to be honest. But every now and again, it gets taken too far. There’s no need to be nasty. You can judge me, but don’t pretend that you know me. I didn’t take a gap yah, and daddy doesn’t pay. I don’t own a mansion or a country estate, and the days of a butler, chef, chauffeur and a myriad of maids are long gone. While I may be a member of the wine society, I also have a soft spot for Cambridge’s fine curry houses, and a life without Cindies is unthinkable. And I really do like Asda.
In a clichéd world, I would say don’t judge a book by its cover. Alas, it’s a cruel world and I for one love to pass wild unfounded judgement on those around me. The great thing is that most of the time what you see really is what you get. There is no way in hell that I can claim to be anything other than a middle class girl. Get over it.