This morning, the boot of my car was packed with stuff: two keyboards, a guitar, an extension reel, a small practice amp, cables, my rucksack with all my pedals in, and a box of carol sheets. I was off to The Range to sing Christmas Carols with some people.
"So basically," said Dale, the tall and impossibly young section manager, "You can sing from over here," he gestured to a small area by the doors. A pile of ghastly orange baskets were stacked up in front of a display of seeds. I had my doubts that even half of us would fit. "Do you want to go and get coffee first?" he continued. I checked my watch. There was time. I jumped on the moving stairs and made my way to the coffee shop.
I don't want to be snooty about The Range. Apparently, I'm only 45% posh, so, although the horsey-set of Yahoo-Henrys wouldn't be seen dead near the shop, I ought to fit right in. I sat thinking about this for a while, with a steaming cup of weak tea in a cardboard cup and a gooey slice of chocolate and orange cake. Am I proud I'm not posh or am I, well... secretly disappointed?
A lot of people posted things on facebook like:
"See! I said I wasn't posh! Lol"
"Only 30% Beat that!"
"I'm 52% apparently; I'm far from posh!"
"Oh dear, 55%! Mrs Bucket!"
... which suggests that most people are actually desperate to prove that they are not posh at all, even when the results put them higher than 50%! So here's my question. Think about it:
What's wrong with being posh?
It's a tricky one isn't it? The empirical evidence is suggesting that poshness must be socially avoided for you to be accepted; even if you do know how to ride a horse, your neighbours live ten minutes away and you refer to napkins and housecoats rather than serviettes and dressing gowns.
I think it's all to do with the perception of the way posh people treat other people. No-one wants to be lumped in with the condescending Arabellas and Tarquins of the world. Even the Arabellas and the Tarquins have a particular perception of the Cynthias and Hooray-Herberts with their tweeds and rifles, I suspect.
In this way, poshness is probably a bit of an illusion; a relative term to the way in which we perceive ourselves. Odd then, that the survey reinforced such specific stereotypes in the questions it asked. I didn't tell the world that I'm 45% posh, because I'm not sure I believe it.
I stirred my tea with one of those thin wooden stirring sticks. Then I popped the plastic lid on and walked downstairs to meet my carollers.
"Joyful all ye nations rise; join the triumph of the skies..."
Carols highlight some of the class differences of Christmas don't they? There we were, singing what is essentially high-church music in antiquated language, at the entrance of a low-budget supply store. I did wonder whether we should be going for Frosty the Snowman or Jingle Bells rather than The Holly and the Ivy and Once in Royal David's City. The trouble with me is, it's the second kind of Christmas that I really love, not the first. I think Christmas ought to be classy.
That's why I won't be covering my house in flashing lights, or lining the mantlepieces with singing santas. I won't be wearing a onesie or wrapping a plastic tree in tinsel. I'd much rather have a log fire and a glass of mulled wine in a leather wing-backed chair; a good book and a game of bagatelle, perhaps a classical collection of traditional carols in the background played by orchestras. None of these gaudy, brash gimcracks and illuminated snowmen! Christmas is about so much more than chimneys and turkeys and tinsellated trinkets. Away with you, cola swigging santas! Be gone ye ridiculous rudolphs.
You know what, you're probably right: I'm annoyed because I want to be more posh than the survey says I am.
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