tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77378024676274801902024-02-20T00:47:09.682+00:00Posh Bird in LondonJessica Fellowes investigates all things posh (some of which are in London)Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-33745369647985199492011-01-16T21:43:00.000+00:002011-01-16T21:43:00.026+00:00I told you so....Having predicted the return of the posh some time ago (see blogs passim), the Mail on Sunday finally confirmed it with an article by Dylan Jones - editor of GQ and arbiter of all things 'now' - and a countdown of the poshest under 30 year olds. It's a pretty comprehensive list, covering most areas of life and they're only the famous ones. I like his description of Kate Middleton as 'New Posh'. For your delectation: <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1347610/Britains-50-powerful-posh-people-30-From-catwalk-Westminster.html">the great posh list. </a>Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-13174917427442650392010-06-25T12:57:00.000+00:002010-06-25T12:57:38.797+00:00Finishing school for three-year-olds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWl2IZJcAuLyA7VeVF-WRG5vAoRvBzZuRQmeritc8-e1h4j4EO-Exdfsu55KksHjnys2x2DwyTXj1Fz6I-WelRsRFJcg_edRJw7iy0DWtmvIPP_cPvPAN6X-olGlP5i2nQ8ZMssU4Jajk/s1600/tantrum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWl2IZJcAuLyA7VeVF-WRG5vAoRvBzZuRQmeritc8-e1h4j4EO-Exdfsu55KksHjnys2x2DwyTXj1Fz6I-WelRsRFJcg_edRJw7iy0DWtmvIPP_cPvPAN6X-olGlP5i2nQ8ZMssU4Jajk/s320/tantrum.jpg" /></a></div>In the news this week was a <a href="http://www.metro.co.uk/news/832071-a-finishing-school-for-3-year-olds">story</a> that children as young as three are to get lessons in etiquette because their teachers are so fed up with bad manners.<br />
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I like the image of a tiny toddler holding a door open for his mother, learning not to speak over others, writing a thank you letter and getting out of a car decorously – all the while trying not to draw attention to a nappy that needs changing.<br />
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The lessons are in fact for all pupils up to the age of 18, which perhaps makes a little more sense (even if it is rather saddening that schools are increasingly expected to teach children how to live their lives, not just read and write). "We want to drive home the message that manners maketh man or or woman," says Ian Hunt, head of Llandovery College in Carmathenshire, where the lessons will be held. "From holding doors open for fellow students to understanding the importance of an RSVP, we hope that our programme puts old-fashioned manners into a modern context."<br />
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The story has also reported the college's directive of marketing and admissions, Lyn Jones (who apparently went to a finishing school herself) admitting that some forms of etiquette were sexist and out of date.<br />
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What does she mean?<br />
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Is a man who gives up his seat on the tube for a woman<i> ipso facto</i> a sexist? I heard an upsetting story about a man who offered his seat to a young woman being told to "F*** off, grand-dad." Who's the one with the bad manners there?<br />
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There are some houses where, after a dinner, the women retire to the drawing room while the men stay and drink some port. It is rude, I think, for the men to stay there for more than half an hour or so. But I don't think it a sexist tradition. In fact, I think the women who protest rather do themselves down by assuming the intelligent conversation is carrying on in the dining room. Why is it not amongst themselves? I always ask for a glass of port and take it through with me, as I like to drink it. But I also welcome the opportunity for a quick gossip (particularly if it's been a large party and there's some flirty intrigue going on).<br />
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Lyn Jones, it must be admitted, has the last word: "Learning how to get out of a car with your legs together is something you learn in finishing school and probably is something that many celebrities would benefit from today."<br />
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Take that Paris/Britney/LiLo and stuff your shirt with it.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-20616146284930004422010-05-26T16:13:00.002+00:002010-05-26T16:13:36.978+00:00Cheese first or pudding?This questions is brilliantly answered by Tim Hayward in today's Guardian: <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2010/may/26/cheese-dessert-first">click here</a>Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-5467393164953075052010-05-26T10:39:00.000+00:002010-05-26T10:39:13.881+00:00Is etiquette relevant?I'm writing an article about the relevance of etiquette. I'd love some thoughts on this. I'm particularly interested in which points you do want to know and which you don't - eg. how to hold a knife vs what to wear at Ascot. How to address a duke vs when to hold a door open for someone.<br />
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I can't do a spoiler here on conclusions drawn before the piece comes out but I will be looking back at past postings and responses. So that's a clue. And of course I'll put the article on here and probably elaborate on it when it's done.<br />
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If anyone has any good etiquette questions.....please send them in! Either on the comment boxes here or go to www.facebook.com/jessicafellowes<br />
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<br class="webkit-block-placeholder" />Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-24222634576934425762010-04-01T17:44:00.000+00:002010-04-01T17:44:20.959+00:00Posh parking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuzLNhl5-zU0xDFoJEF_JvGcUlN32pdPYYYTJwefTvexrQcKn6HGFIcv8JKTrL77P3CqW28itjCKVkdV91LqwcDv9CJycgdrfFF4FC3xcQyvvoDNNoHNE-BQFaTjW6rCKI3HkHiMjdMM/s1600/parking+meter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuzLNhl5-zU0xDFoJEF_JvGcUlN32pdPYYYTJwefTvexrQcKn6HGFIcv8JKTrL77P3CqW28itjCKVkdV91LqwcDv9CJycgdrfFF4FC3xcQyvvoDNNoHNE-BQFaTjW6rCKI3HkHiMjdMM/s320/parking+meter.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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I got a bloomin' parking ticket this morning because I couldn't properly operate the fangled Westminster system (no coins, just texting endless details to the parking shop and blahblahblah). Which reminded me of a story I was told about a rich, rather eccentric, uncle of a friend of mine who lived in the country.<br />
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Taking a friend into London one day he parked the car, got out and strode off. 'Er,' said the friend, 'hadn't you better put some coins in the parking meter?' 'Oh no,' replied the rich man. 'They have the most marvellous system here. You simply leave the car and they put an invoice on it for you to pay later.'<br />
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<br class="webkit-block-placeholder" />Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-38853086387585684612010-03-30T15:00:00.000+00:002010-03-30T15:00:47.727+00:00Royal protocol<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQB5atH6Mwh33FvYRH26wtMI0032KG95mJ105cSF3SF-T6GHvZKoHyJ-i7cn6-mZP81vsC7yGPn-1516V3g7gtV4dFd3iYoNM-tv3-E3d0NyXLCBMyNEm8O2n9DYbbhfXsxZSVyejhLI4/s1600/The_Princess_Royal_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQB5atH6Mwh33FvYRH26wtMI0032KG95mJ105cSF3SF-T6GHvZKoHyJ-i7cn6-mZP81vsC7yGPn-1516V3g7gtV4dFd3iYoNM-tv3-E3d0NyXLCBMyNEm8O2n9DYbbhfXsxZSVyejhLI4/s320/The_Princess_Royal_01.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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On Sunday, dear readers, I was asked to lunch with the Princesss Royal.<br />
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Well. Of a sort. A few select journos were invited to see the course she's designed at her home estate for horse trials, and then join her for lunch afterwards. To read more about this, you'll have to see my article for The Lady when it comes out.<br />
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But in advance, I thought – I think I know what to do (I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">am</span> PB, after all) but I'd better just check the protocol. Being the lazy 21st century fact finder that I am, rather than check my Debrett's Guide to Etiquette and Modern Manners, I tried to google 'princess royal etiquette greeting' but yielded nada of any use. Luckily, I was able to dredge up from dim memories past, the correct instruction.<br />
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The right answer, is, of course, to say 'Your Royal Highness' on introduction and then call her 'ma'am' thereafter (rhyming with jam not smarm). One should also curtsey. I was taught that the grander one is, the lower the curtsey. The grandest person I know could give the floor a quick polish with her elegant derriere, when saying hello to the Queen.<br />
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In the event, HRH Princess Royal was completely ungrand (and really rather delightfully amusing). On introduction, I simply said 'Your Royal Highness' and thought I caught a sharp glint of approval in her eyes but you would not have detected any less when the woman next to me said 'Pleased to meet you'. Still, I'm afraid I rather let the PB side down: I just couldn't bring myself to be the only one to curtsey when all around me remained as upright as ironing boards.<br />
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One more thing. I've always suspected the Royals of being less than truly posh (they send Christmas cards with family photos on the front, for heaven's sake) but this was only confirmed when I saw HRH eat her pud. She used a spoon! SHOCKER.<br />
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And on that bombshell....<br />
<br class="webkit-block-placeholder" />Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-67983732341761176292010-03-18T15:59:00.000+00:002010-03-18T15:59:55.320+00:00Posh Bird is now marriedApologies to readers.......I got married last week and what with the distractions of finding the right shoes, buying the flowers, taking delivery of champagne and then being on honeymoon.......there hasn't been a blog for a while. I hereby solemnly promise to love, honour and obey my readers from hereon in. Well, from Monday.<br />
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Hold out til then. Please.<br />
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Mrs Posh Geezer xPosh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-5019101987073478302010-02-24T17:44:00.000+00:002010-02-24T17:44:01.839+00:00The death of aristocracy?The Duke of Devonshire, one of the poshest dukes around still living in the ancient family estate (the gorgeous – and ginormous – Chatsworth) has declared: "The aristocracy is not dying. It is dead. Coffin's nailed down, it's in the ground. It doesn't exist."<br />
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This was made in response to Labour's plans to axe the remaining 90 hereditary peers before the General Election. If they manage to do this in the next few weeks, the Duke has pledged to drop his title. "Because then it would be clear-cut what the people wanted, and it would be confusing to maintain hereditary titles. So, finish that, go back to being called Cavendish."<br />
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Of course, this remark shows just how out of touch the Duke is - it's been a long time since any of Labour's plans represented "what the people wanted". But I do see his point. From the Duke's point of view, the 'aristocracy' means - or meant - power, prestige, wealth. All of these things have long since vanished from any association with titles and once you strip away the very last element of an aristocrat's ability to run the country - then yes, of course, you may as well drop the whole thing. Dropping the title would also get rid of the general view that aristocratic means titled and eliminate any presumptions on any side that being a Duke entitles one to privileges.<br />
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But of course, even locking out all the hereditary peers, scratching out all the titles and burning the Debrett's Guide to Etiquette and Burke's Peerage on the pyre would not signal the end of class. Each individual British psyche is too deeply ingrained with a sense of natural pride/injustice (delete as appropriate) in its own class to be able to simply forget it. <br />
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This has reminded me of a holiday I took in France when I was 17 years old. It was a week with a family, to brush up on my French before taking my A'levels. They were an old family and before the Revolution had titles and land. All this had now gone but their society still mimicked the rules of Les Liasons Dangereuses, only with slightly fewer curtains worn as dresses. The daughter of the family was permitted to mix only with other boys and girls of her class. I joined them halfway through their debutante season. Each night there would be a party in a different house - the parents would sit upstairs, hoping their watered down punch didn't cause any riots. Meanwhile, in a cold, large room, the girls would stand on one side, the boys on the other and to the rhythm of terrible pop songs (Sinitta's "Boys, Boys, Boys" was a hit that year) we would dance formal waltzes. I tried to break out once, dancing on my own in red crushed velvet trousers and three girls looked as if they might faint. Three hundred years of republicanism - you call that progress?Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-34168824573090956072010-02-16T13:17:00.000+00:002010-02-16T13:17:52.110+00:00The perfect posh response to a lightbulb in your handbag<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFvii1UtfpEKGF_dKnEWe1qPuCMcEUmJEsUIlf00uTOwQfXYfvH7lXQ9Jq6e34ZLhcYkseAvP92KFZWsXLBzLhAN-cnjSdwJjrrfEalqF319DiO7rpRLCqrd49GN09mzYG-rdbBCSZWw/s1600-h/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFvii1UtfpEKGF_dKnEWe1qPuCMcEUmJEsUIlf00uTOwQfXYfvH7lXQ9Jq6e34ZLhcYkseAvP92KFZWsXLBzLhAN-cnjSdwJjrrfEalqF319DiO7rpRLCqrd49GN09mzYG-rdbBCSZWw/s320/images.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I was reminded last night of a good story about perfect posh manners...<br />
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A few years ago I took part in a vintage car rally from London to Paris via Reims, where we drank vast amounts of Ruinart champagne. The journey home was on the Orient Express, which would have been wonderful had we not all been suffering hangovers on a scale not seen since the days of Court of Versailles. Well, all of us bar one person. Lady Shawcross, the widow of Lord Shawcross, the chief prosecutor of Nazi leaders in the Nuremberg trials, was one of the drivers. She was a surprising entry (everyone else came from the City, on the whole) but a very welcome one for the spectacle she created. She was small and slightly stout but always beautifully, immaculately dressed, with gloves and a hat and a well-pressed suit. She was accompanied everywhere by a rather quiet paid companion, who sat mutely in the passenger seat while Lady Shawcross drove her ancient Mini at speed.<br />
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Most of us were simply content to observe her in awe and amusement but one wag on the trip home thought it would be a good wheeze – and a distraction from the pain of our thick heads and sandpaper tongues – to steal a lightbulb from the train and put it in her handbag when she wasn't looking. This duly done, everyone in the carriage watched her for what felt like the length of long courtroom session until she needed to delve into her bag. At last, she lifted it from the floor to the table. We watched agog. Her hand went in and pulled out the offending and, surely, mysterious, glass object.<br />
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"A lightbulb," she said, in Lady Bracknell tones. "How useful." And replaced it into her bag.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-67252722939891169002010-02-15T13:00:00.000+00:002010-02-15T13:00:22.729+00:00Posh Bird speaks!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhllxr4NqePbFBnaxOybIgXHbg7QybsApkNCGELbFDqzY_W8IfrGW0-3zepO3XN3xtUPrvyHXXJ6KhuzCv0QT3rf9mG7x6-wIjJSIk0t9sDkI2gnbPMwT5LuBBZNDrCpLmsosB2CsHkNEk/s1600-h/book+jacket" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhllxr4NqePbFBnaxOybIgXHbg7QybsApkNCGELbFDqzY_W8IfrGW0-3zepO3XN3xtUPrvyHXXJ6KhuzCv0QT3rf9mG7x6-wIjJSIk0t9sDkI2gnbPMwT5LuBBZNDrCpLmsosB2CsHkNEk/s320/book+jacket" /></a></div>I'll be giving a short talk this week about the pleasures and pains of wearing stilettos in the country, navigating muddy paths and how to overtake a tractor (take the train) at a Literary Salon organised by the truly brilliant Damian Barr (of Shoreditch Salon fame). It's at Aubin & Wills on Westbourne Grove on Thurs 18 Feb. Free but there are limited places so go to the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/?sk=messages#%21/event.php?eid=282639849125&ref=mf">Facebook page</a> if you want to be on the guestlist. <br />
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You can buy <i>Mud & the City: Dos & Don'ts of Townies in the Country </i>on Amazon for a bargainous £6.49.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-42325151237407242252010-02-10T16:13:00.000+00:002010-02-10T16:13:09.573+00:00Recollections of a naughty grandmotherAn old friend of mine came round for supper last week and was reminding me of stories about my very naughty maternal grandmother. Far from baking cakes, Kate used to give me whisky and cigarettes when I was a small child and my bed time stories would be about antics in nightclubs where waiters were bitten by pet tigers, or lovers that tried to double cross her and failed. She was tall and glamorous, never with a snag in her tights or safety pin for a button. Even at 80 years old, her legs would be the best in the room and she'd sit in the corner while people flocked to talk to her.<br />
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In her earlier years, for almost two decades, she had an affair with an Earl in Scotland. They wrote to each other daily and he gave her an owl. He promised he would wait for her to divorce so they could marry but then suddenly he met someone else and arranged to marry her within three months. She said later she was demented with heartbreak – which means that perhaps we may forgive her the next part of the story. But perhaps not.<br />
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On the eve of the wedding, she wrote two letters. One, to her former lover, said: "Darling R–, I am so sorry that you have been forced into marriage with this terribly plain girl...How awful it will be for you to be forced to look upon her plain face when you wake in the morning...What terrible circumstances have brought you to this. My poor love. Etc." The second said: "Dear M–, What simply wonderful news of your marriage. How happy you will be. With very best wishes, Kate."<br />
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And then she put them in the wrong envelopes.<br />
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Deliberately? But, of course.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-85178688371533357592010-02-03T15:39:00.000+00:002010-02-03T15:39:46.132+00:00U and Non-U: some things never change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiR6SrunTfzQ-SUfIGJBUugcKdPHZ6J1bsHOVG0_6Veeo0h1XCnyIxxLKVG_rKGTCtbY5bhXl1EK-OHA4fY5-4ybHsXVF9hunP-BXe0r-6VZ-QflfvgWKNqAAzi14wSRL7Kvl3gapgoqM/s1600-h/noblesse+oblige.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiR6SrunTfzQ-SUfIGJBUugcKdPHZ6J1bsHOVG0_6Veeo0h1XCnyIxxLKVG_rKGTCtbY5bhXl1EK-OHA4fY5-4ybHsXVF9hunP-BXe0r-6VZ-QflfvgWKNqAAzi14wSRL7Kvl3gapgoqM/s320/noblesse+oblige.jpg" /></a></div>With reference to blogs passim about how hard it is to find distinguishing marks of the posh, I'd like to draw your attention to this little snippet I found:<br />
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"...today, a member of the upper class is, for instance, not necessarily better educated, cleaner, or richer than someone not of this class. Nor, in general, is he likely to play a greater part in public affairs, be supported by other trades or professions, or engage in other pursuits or pastimes than his fellow of another class. There are, it is true, still a few minor points of life which may serve to demarcate the upper class, but they are only minor ones."<br />
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Oddly enough, this was not written last week but in 1956 by Alan S.C.Ross in his academic paper for the University of Birmingham: 'U and Non-U – An Essay in Sociological Linguistics.'<br />
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It was from this that Nancy Mitford wrote her own article on 'The English Aristocracy', for which she was revered and reviled in equal measure. (So, in fact, it wasn't Mitford who coined U - meaning upper class speaker, and Non-U, meaning not. I'd be pretty cross if I was Ross. But then again, he nearly was.)<br />
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Lots of the U and Non-U markers still hold today, although some of the "minor marks" of the upper classes, which include things such as the wearing of braces for tennis, use of the word wireless and how they hold their drink (gentlemen would, apparently, vomit in public but never be truculent when drunk) are no longer noticeable, shall we say.<br />
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Ross focuses on the addressing of envelopes (hah!), Mitford is more concerned with the definition of aristocracy (which she boils down almost entirely simply to having a title) and those linguistic things which mark out a Non-U. Those which still exist include:<br />
<i>Sweet</i>: non-U for U <i>pudding</i><br />
<i>Dinner</i>: non-U for U <i>luncheon</i> (although hardly anyone says luncheon, they do say lunch)<br />
<i>Wealthy</i>: non-U for U <i>rich</i><br />
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Some I always used but didn't know I was being U in saying them:<br />
<i>Britain</i>: non-U for U <i>England </i>(although I do know when to be sensitive about this. One has to move with the times. As you might have thought Liz Hurley would when she recently wrote an article headlined 'A Guide to Mumbai' and insisted on calling it 'Bombay' throughout.)<br />
<i>Home<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">: non-U – 'they have a lovely home'; U - 'they've a very nice </span>house<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">'</span></i><br />
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But some I didn't know (and henceforth of course will pretend that that was what I always said):<br />
<i>Greens</i> is non-U for U <i>vegetables</i><br />
<i>Mental</i>: non-U for U <i>mad</i><br />
<i>Glasses</i>: non U for U <i>spectacles</i><br />
<i>Dentures</i>: non-U for U <i>false teeth </i><br />
<i>Ill</i>: non-U against U <i>sick</i><br />
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To confuse things further, Mitford admits that some U-speakers will deliberately employ non-U phrases in an ironic manner (or perhaps in memory of their darling Nanny. It is a truism that the upper classes of the past were entirely brought up by the working classes, which is why they share so many characteristics even now). Also, of course, U and non-U markers change over the years.<br />
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Is it time for a 21st century version? Posh Bird throws her hat into the ring...Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-80412497164297289472010-01-29T12:38:00.000+00:002010-01-29T12:38:34.233+00:00"Harriet Harman: I dropped my cut-glass accent for Labour"This was the shocker of a headline in the Evening Standard yesterday. Inside was an interview with HH, public-school educated, niece of Lord Longford, who agreed that she had lost her accent along the way because "I sounded like Lady Diana". (Of course, everyone thinks this is fine. Imagine the furore if George Osborne was revealed to have had diction like an extra on Eastenders as a teenager.)<br />
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Posh family links, a public school education etc should not preclude you from voting Labour, being left-wing or even becoming a Labour MP. But what I object to is the continuing belief that poshness equals snobbery, rather than it simply being a tribal description. The accent I have in no way prescribes my ethics, political beliefs or moral values. Those things are shaped by my social environment, my own intellectual curiosity, the people I talk to, the work I do.....there's a myriad of influences.<br />
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And yet, those who could be effective in striving for a meritocratic society - ie Labour MPs in power - do nothing to help the cause.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-35134941045052472362010-01-26T12:36:00.000+00:002010-01-26T12:36:17.178+00:00How to address an envelope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJlZThKfabaNXbi3jcxSKH06PUW2iWP9MlF8FU2bXyDCR4wAujoTnNOGKYJfCcEX5ILO2TCekvjTb2YcPJTcM09jgH9peJ29Y0SPf_ZgkgDL7E7dF0NON5u5SvC-fU-6lTgAXY3J8ewA/s1600-h/Writing-Photo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJlZThKfabaNXbi3jcxSKH06PUW2iWP9MlF8FU2bXyDCR4wAujoTnNOGKYJfCcEX5ILO2TCekvjTb2YcPJTcM09jgH9peJ29Y0SPf_ZgkgDL7E7dF0NON5u5SvC-fU-6lTgAXY3J8ewA/s320/Writing-Photo2.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>A good friend called me up the other day and she said: "Thank you for your Christmas card. I was so pleased because you're the only person I know who knows how to address envelopes properly. I'm always trying to explain and no one understands." I was thrilled, of course – always good to know that Posh Bird's reputation remains intact – but also surprised as this friend is not at all posh. But she is, however, another generation. Born before 1950, this perhaps explains her knowledge of envelope addressing. Although why her generation chose not to tell their children how to do it is another story. (Largely, I suspect, because throughout the 1960s and 1970s they thought that things like titles, or 'handles', would cease to exist, so why should anyone know how to use them properly?)<br />
<br />
In fact, I didn't know how to address an envelope correctly until I was 19 years old. I knew the basics but wouldn't have written to a duchess with confidence. It was only when my grandfather called me up one day, shouting "I am NOT an American!" that the error of my ways was rectified. He resented being addressed as 'Mr', feeling that years of good breeding and Britishness entitled him to be an 'Esq.'. So I was tutored in the ways of envelope etiquette and once learned, it can never be forgotten or relaxed.<br />
<br />
For those who want to know - these are the basic rules.<br />
<br />
1. To a man, you write: Rupert Fotherington-Smythe, Esq.<br />
(Strictly speaking, you write this to all men except Americans and tradesmen, whom you address as 'Mr' but I don't make that distinction.)<br />
2. To a single woman you write: Miss Arabella Toffington-Love<br />
3. To a married (and widowed) woman, you write: Mrs Rupert Fotherington-Smythe.<br />
4. To a divorced woman, you write: Mrs Arabella Fotherington-Smythe.<br />
5. To a Baronet or knight, you write: Sir Giles Poppy.<br />
6. To an Earl, you write: Lord Poppy.<br />
7. To the wife of a knight, baronet or earl, you write: Lady Poppy.<br />
8. To the daughter of an earl or duke, you write: Lady Celestria Poppy.<br />
9. To the married daughter of an earl or duke, you write: Lady Celestria Fowler.<br />
10. That's it for now. There are further complicated permutations (the daughter of a daughter of an earl or duke is The Hon. An MP is The Rt. Hon. Plus all the Royal stuff) but I'll save those for a rainy day.<br />
<br />
The only other thing to note is that even when writing to a couple (eg, Christmas card, invitation or thank you note), the envelope is addressed to the wife only. This is because traditionally the wife organised the husband's diary, and if you stayed with a couple for the weekend she is the one who would have done all the work. As to the question of whether one should stick with the format although the tradition has changed: the answer is yes. After all, I still say please to the bus conductor when asking for my ticket, even though he has long dropped the tradition of saying thank you.<br />
<br />
The only problem I find is with rule no.3 as so many women now prefer not to take their husbands names on marriage. Does this mean that they have to be addressed as 'Miss' - when that is ridiculous, surely? And to write Mrs Arabella Fotherington-Smythe makes them look divorced. The only solution, I think, is to drop the prefixes of Miss or Mrs altogether. Although, of course, doing that makes Posh Bird start hyperventilating and there isn't always a brown paper bag handy when doing one's Christmas cards.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-85109238067680292682010-01-21T13:22:00.000+00:002010-01-21T13:22:40.440+00:00Harriet Harman to announce that class is the decisive factor in social immobilityHarriet Harman is expected <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/debates/7043410/Does-class-count.html">to announce today</a> that class is the decisive factor in social immobility. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">“Persistent inequality of socio-economic status — of class — overarches the discrimination or disadvantage that can come from your gender, race or disability,” the <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/politics/labour/7040187/Harriet-Harman-reopens-class-war-with-speech-on-inequality.html" style="color: #234b7b; text-decoration: none;">deputy Labour leader will say.</a></span><br />
<br />
HH makes two mistakes here: first, she confuses 'socio-economic status' with class. (What class you are has borne little relation to – certainly not some kind of inevitable consequence of – the money you have for at least two generations now.) Secondly, she seeks to accuse our society (institutional?) racism, sexism and prejudice against the disabled.<br />
<br />
While I don't seek to deny that there are still strides to be made before we reach a true balance of power between the genders, races and the disabled and able-bodied, what really makes my blood boil is that she is deliberately using this incendiary argument to gloss over the true inequalities that her government has brought about.<br />
<br />
Her speech does one good thing: it shows that Labour are at last acknowledging that under their government, social mobility is the worst its ever been. Those born disadvantaged have a steeper mountain to climb if they wish to escape than ever before: poor diets, high crime rates, depressed morale, poor education and a severe lack of positive role models all contribute. Low-income areas and their residents have become ever more segregated as the middle classes have barricaded themselves apart with gated communities and enormous SUVs with blacked out windows. Money spent by the high earners has been channelled straight back into their own communities with few government incentives offered (as in America) for charitable giving. Not to mention that Labour encouraged vast amounts of non-doms to reside here - bringing their cash to spend on Bond Street but with no sense of community responsibility.<br />
<br />
But to suggest that all this is the fault of class is the kind of blinkered, inverted-snobbery response that makes me want to perform acupuncture with toothpicks on Harriet Hardup. In fact, you could argue that in the last century, where class divisions were strictly observed and very obvious, social mobility was not only easier but actively encouraged. It was, then, after all, that the welfare state was introduced, the practice of better education for all for longer was brought in and meritocracy was the buzzword.<br />
<br />
Any capitalist society will contain, sadly, the indolent poor and the indifferent rich as well as the self-obsessed middle classes. And in Britain, hundreds of years of dialect and a class structure has left its imprint - we notice the way a knife is held, the h's that are dropped. But these things do not in themselves lead to ghettos, a crippling stealth tax, the reward of greedy, thick bankers and a fearful population afraid to cross over to the 'wrong' side of the street. No, Harriet, those things are the fault of the government - <i>your</i> government. When will you say sorry?Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-51613546888252684162010-01-20T11:14:00.001+00:002010-01-21T13:38:52.925+00:00Royals in Oz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZX-9s-URl4E_gfjTh8Almt49c9Y4wh7n_mXDZR9wqTpiztUHtR-xiooxJXhBZ1-qJTp0H9PvtjIY_hoGSlq0thYbZHipJQUzWC70We0pWlZJpUPdKdLPa9_wb8L37h8WicYV36MWtm8/s1600-h/kiss_1563167c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZX-9s-URl4E_gfjTh8Almt49c9Y4wh7n_mXDZR9wqTpiztUHtR-xiooxJXhBZ1-qJTp0H9PvtjIY_hoGSlq0thYbZHipJQUzWC70We0pWlZJpUPdKdLPa9_wb8L37h8WicYV36MWtm8/s320/kiss_1563167c.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>When even Australia starts feting the royals, you can't help but think that not so much a tide has been turned as a tsunami. Before Prince William's <a href="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/article6994650.ece">storming visit in New South Wales</a> this week, the idea of a British Royal getting a warm welcome was about as likely as the Democrats losing their safe seat in Massachussets......Oh, whoops. Mind you, the feeling was probably mutual - what with the Queen and Prince Phillip having suffered an <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/theroyalfamily/4359649/Queen-and-Prince-Philip-were-victims-of-Australian-assassination-attempt.html">alleged assassination attempt</a> down under in 1970. But ol' Prince William's ("call me charming") ability to not only shoot impeccably on a rifle range but shoot the breeze about rap with a 'disadvantaged youngster' (one of those phrases never used in real life but only in the papers, like 'searingly honest' or 'achingly hip') has apparently won the hearts of Sheilas and Bruces everywhere.<br />
<br />
And so say all of us. But I still can't help feeling that this young man, nice though he is, has got an awfully long way to go before he can take over the Palace. While Charlie boy may be fed up of his long wait to be King it's better that the more recent public memory has images of him growing organic biscuits and than of cavorting (yes, another of those words again) on the beach with a model. William needs to do some hard work to put some distance between him and the nightclubs before the country feels he has earned his natural right to prime acreage in London. Better get chatting rap down in Deptford next, eh?Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-45372699240785813202010-01-12T11:31:00.000+00:002010-01-12T11:31:34.179+00:00A good retort to a posh remark<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGK4gCs-0rmhJjogcm69apwhJgxnkgmOwonFAeIFo69a4KNNEU4RdE910JSesLwevSG4rQ5_ZebbbcpYoKqt2P3E3ThP4CDFcPEeOcpY2y0z9gNJOAC2hGpj0nOn4S_ddEw7lEur0wWPA/s1600-h/rachel+cusk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGK4gCs-0rmhJjogcm69apwhJgxnkgmOwonFAeIFo69a4KNNEU4RdE910JSesLwevSG4rQ5_ZebbbcpYoKqt2P3E3ThP4CDFcPEeOcpY2y0z9gNJOAC2hGpj0nOn4S_ddEw7lEur0wWPA/s320/rachel+cusk.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
I was reading in the bath this morning (Posh Bird and the ilk always have baths in the morning, preferably with lemon verbena scented soap, rose oils and a toga clad youth to hand over the queen-sized fluffy white towel*), and just about the time I was trying to turn the hot tap with my big toe to warm up a bit, I came across this in Rachel Cusk's novel, 'The Country Life'. It quite put me off my stroke. In this scene, Stella Benson, a paranoid and tricksy 29 year old has moved to the country to work as an au-pair for a disabled, bright, teenager.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> 'There you are.' Martin folded his arms with satisfaction. 'That's why things are better off in our hands. We know how these things ought to be done.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> 'Who is "we"?' I enquired. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> 'The upper classes,' said Martin, his face crumpled and white, like something botched and screwed into a ball. I caught a glimpse of the cavity of his mouth, dark and moist. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> 'I do apologize,' I said sarcastically. 'I didn't realize that was who you were.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> 'Our family,' intoned Martin, 'has lived in this house since the seventeenth century, and in this area since long before that.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> 'Does that make you upper class?' I was becoming quite irritated, in a desultory fashion. 'I'd have thought it just makes you <i>local</i>.'</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">* (No. <i>Really</i> posh baths mean brown water out of the tap, the hot water running out after half an inch and small, scratchy towels that are frequently mistaken for the dog bed lining.)</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><br />
</span>Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-9258322637823758232010-01-06T15:30:00.000+00:002010-01-06T15:30:13.612+00:00A spot of pro-posh marketing, 'Posh Brother' and a play called 'Posh'So, how posh is 2010? With a tv show, a marketing campaign and a play - I'd say, very.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRB_L4XNjsDfpmB9fic6zchz4i0csYoL9aH3cwKaiLmnPjjNRkR7XdX0VbQpJALL3XonlLl8Wn9CDjDemLsEdOv8lochy83MdCCMREuChdpSHxzwkd6MROwhFqG7HXoOttVMmsdr4m6c/s1600-h/DM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRB_L4XNjsDfpmB9fic6zchz4i0csYoL9aH3cwKaiLmnPjjNRkR7XdX0VbQpJALL3XonlLl8Wn9CDjDemLsEdOv8lochy83MdCCMREuChdpSHxzwkd6MROwhFqG7HXoOttVMmsdr4m6c/s320/DM.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
First up is a picture released by Royal Ascot (posh people never call it 'Royal Ascot' by the way, just 'Ascot', and it is pronounced Asket, never <i>never</i> As-cot) which has the Daily Mail frothing. Allegedly due to be sent out with invitations to members of the Royal Enclosure, the snap, taken at Cliveden, has the Duke of Devonshire at the centre, flanked by Bruce Forsyth, Ronnie Corbett, Lisa Snowden, model Lady Martha Sitwell, BBC presenter Claire Balding and socialist, I mean, <i>socialite</i>, Jake Warren (son of the Queen's racing manager). In other words - where's the poshos? Are <i>celebrities</i> allowed in the Enclosure these days? Well, yes. It's not been hard for some years now to find a way to finagle yourself in there and the fun of it is all about the hats and mixing up slebs and Dukes. I'm rather encouraged that modern posh, 2010 poshness, is not about old-fashioned posh rules but about everyone enjoying a posh event. It's just an excuse to dress up, pretend that all one really cares about is the filly at 2.10 and how simply marvellous and practically ordinary it is to be hobnobbing and drinking champagne on a Tuesday. Anyway - more of that in the summer.<br />
<br />
Next up is what will come to be known as 'Posh Brother' - Endemol, the production company behind Big Brother, have started advertising in Country Life magazine for families "with historic links" to stately homes in need of restoration for a new programme commissioned by the BBC. Francis Fulford and his wife Kishanda, who had a moment in the spotlight with 'The F-ing Fulfords' on Channel 4 a few years ago are already allegedly "champing at the bit" to take part, hoping that the fee might get them a new roof. This would be highly desirable for a lot of families with stately homes but to anyone I know living in one my advice would be - don't do it. Invariably, those who are unable to pay for roofs because they haven't had the nous to work for a bank, open it up to the public, sell it off to the National Trust, are going to be in some way quite mad - as if posh people in vast houses weren't mad at some level anyway - and will in no way come out of a programme made by Endemol without wanting to smash everyone's television sets before transmission.<br />
<br />
Lastly, the Royal Court is staging a play from 2 April called, simply, 'Posh'. It's written by Laura Wade, who is probably not unduly unposh herself - she went to a fairly posh sounding school (Lady Manners in Bakewell), did drama at Bristol Uni (pretty posh) and lives with actor Samuel West, son of Prunella Scales ("BASIL!!") and Timothy West, who are quite posh. So Laura probably knows what she's talking about. I'll get more details in due course.<br />
<br />
Right. Now Posh Bird needs to battle through the snow. In my poshest snow outfit - big furry hat, fur-trimmed (fake, guys, FAKE) coat and er, Nike trainers. Red Hunter wellies look so much better but have no grip. Be safe out there.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-41932926297048004902009-12-31T11:03:00.000+00:002009-12-31T11:03:34.439+00:00Happy new year, happy new decade!As is my wont at this time of year, I've taken a complete and utter break. Please accept my apologies for PB silence over the last week. I'm currently sitting on a very comfortable sofa at my home-from-home, <a href="http://www.staplefordpark.com/">Stapleford Park hotel</a> in Leicestershire having eaten and drunk my way through the festivities and am now slowly gearing myself up for 2010. Posh resolutions are being thought through.<br />
<br />
On the brink of a whole new decade, the newspapers have been summing up and discarding the Noughties (which appear to be encapsulated by Tony Blair, Katie Price, Google and terrorism). What will the Teenies bring? David Cameron, Alexa Chung in a Barbour, the Tablet and oil wars. Perhaps.<br />
<br />
But for now, let's concentrate on immediate revelry. If you want a posh new year, get stupidly drunk before midnight, dance a Scottish reel or two on the hour, eat breakfast at 1am and fall asleep in the wrong bedroom, having made a pass at the wrong wife.<br />
<br />
Pip pip! Hoorah. xxxPosh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-66743893087368687632009-12-24T10:30:00.002+00:002009-12-24T10:30:35.801+00:00A very merry Christmas from Posh BirdHere's to a marvellous posh Christmas to you all - to include tins of Quality Street, watching The Queen, bought Christmas pud, singing Good King Wenceslas as you line up to open your presents, midnight mass, champagne at breakfast, smoked salmon and carnage.<br />
<br />
PB xxxPosh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-5721067845964588152009-12-23T10:29:00.001+00:002009-12-23T11:31:14.201+00:00Star Guest Blog! Novelist Josa Young on being one of the last debs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrWx3ZxkSfCAxNmwmQpHtYOUU5FvLXKKaMfT1Bi4nAraXkCogXHdVU_Cdu6Z3OOoM43P2P-QnsqSI3_ernp8w7R3SkVhYz2Cw33WsHBDSruzlXiQA9RnKGbCMkoZYIi286vj4C3s1G7k/s1600-h/One+Apple+Tasted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrWx3ZxkSfCAxNmwmQpHtYOUU5FvLXKKaMfT1Bi4nAraXkCogXHdVU_Cdu6Z3OOoM43P2P-QnsqSI3_ernp8w7R3SkVhYz2Cw33WsHBDSruzlXiQA9RnKGbCMkoZYIi286vj4C3s1G7k/s320/One+Apple+Tasted.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-family: 'Geneva CE';"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I was 17 I popped out of 10 years of single sex boarding school, and advanced bookwormhood, to find myself blinking in the light of the deb season. It was a huge shock, and I had no idea what I was doing. I cringe when I think how absurd were my views on how to behave.<br />
<br />
Most of the other girls were younger than me as they were either not doing A Levels, or were doing the Season at the same time. Which struck me as plain bonkers. I had done my A Levels, got straight As, and was whiling away the time between working, backpacking in Italy looking at pictures, and going up to Cambridge to read English. Naturally enough, the 'debs' delights' - a range of young men chiefly distinguished by their belief that 1950s attitudes to women, society, work and what you will were the way to go - turned up their noses at me. Which led to disagreements, as I could not for the life of me agree that I was in some way inferior to a chap with no O levels. And anyway it wasn't difficult as I am not very tall and many of them, particularly the Guards officers, towered over me.<br />
<br />
Having done nothing but read, I had little idea how to relate to the opposite sex anyway in that strange period between the cure for syphillis and the emergence of AIDS. If one of them made a crude pass at me (there was no finesse), I would kick them smartly in the shins. I was also not used to drink at all, and found even a couple of glasses a bit of a challenge. Having had so much single-sex education, I got on much better with the girls. Which led to another difficulty. Why did they ignore my attempts at conversation as soon as a man - any man, however plain and dull - came into the room?<br />
<br />
The good things were visiting, dancing and staying in beautiful houses all over the country. I have a persistent memory of a ravishing hall with open fires burning in white marble fire places on each side, of flowers and marquees, of four-poster beds and grand staircases. In those days people felt it was their social duty to give house parties for complete strangers, and provided dinner and a bed for local dances. I thought I disliked grouse until quite recently, because us young were always fed on nameless game birds hacked off the bottom of the freezer - old when they went in there no doubt. And our hosts could be tetchy - I remember once asking what kind of dog as strange, liver-coloured, squat creature might be, and feeling very embarrassed by the haughty answer: 'It's a labrador, of course!'<br />
<br />
The Season forced me to be sociable and put on a good show wherever I went. I was brought up to understand that 'being shy' was extremely rude, and that I was always to try and talk to everyone. At dinner, I was to make conversation with the people on both sides of me and not turn my back and only talk to the interesting ones. But I had no idea what to talk about - I was interested in literature and history and hopeless at flirting. I am afraid I was a terrific wallflower - the tradition of young men in your party being obliged to dance with you had evaporated. I always rushing from room to room trying to look as if I was having fun - there was always sitting on a pile of coats reading a book if things got really uncomfortable. Once the coats squawked when I sat on them, as I had sat upon a semi-naked sleeping couple.<br />
<br />
My husband, at 18 and in possession of a modest title, found himself in receipt of invitations from complete strangers at the same time - he put them in the bin having no concept of what was expected of him. I often wonder what would have happened if we had met then.<br />
<br />
I definitely don't regret doing the Season - even a very watered down 1970s one. It was a kind of crucible where bits of me were burned away in the flames of embarrassment. And it has provided lots of material for my writing.<br />
<br />
<i> Josa Young's debut novel One Apple Tasted (E&T Books) is out now. </i></span> <a href="http://www.oneappletasted.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><i>www.oneappletasted.co.uk</i></span></a><br />
</span></span>Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-87323243160733090102009-12-21T09:49:00.000+00:002009-12-21T09:49:28.448+00:00Posh Bird Is Back....with happy newsSo I went to the Tower of London and I'm so damned posh I was captured. Seriously, they was all, like, this must be the new pretender to the throne and that. So I was banged up and if it hadn't been for my cunning way with a scone knife and a row of pearls I'd still be rotting under the stairs with the princes.<br />
<br />
Well, almost.<br />
<br />
I went to the Tower and it was really jolly good fun. Lots of armour and ravens and a simply spiffing cafe. I highly recommend it.<br />
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But in other exciting news, Posh Geezer and I are now engaged. Hurrah! We're off this morning to Chelsea Registry Office to give our Notice of Intent (so that's what people mean when they say, "...and does he have honourable intentions towards your daughter?"). Promise I'll be back in full PB flow shortly - there's lots of posh stuff to report: bow ties are back, more posh comics on the Royal Variety Performance....plus, a special on what the posh do for Christmas.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-19197810051470397502009-12-17T09:54:00.000+00:002009-12-17T09:54:19.326+00:00Posh Bird is off to the Tower of London today<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8XOzAj8HB5TuGikWGnfVHcBdq4jemw9LnbV3TzK5V0tVFNL5LKHs6LIDfNVp6kNg4mmuT17hIQiap_bu2R6GH2UYh_sX6fUEb_quwuLkBWFYLHLNUA_KKFngEZyrgmew_Mc0lZLsrB8w/s1600-h/crown+jewels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8XOzAj8HB5TuGikWGnfVHcBdq4jemw9LnbV3TzK5V0tVFNL5LKHs6LIDfNVp6kNg4mmuT17hIQiap_bu2R6GH2UYh_sX6fUEb_quwuLkBWFYLHLNUA_KKFngEZyrgmew_Mc0lZLsrB8w/s320/crown+jewels.jpg" /></a><br />
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Will report back on the Crown Jewels later today.<br />
PB xPosh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-38838604437921708892009-12-16T12:00:00.000+00:002009-12-16T12:00:58.261+00:00More hot new evidence that Posh Is Back: demand for monocles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82PHgmUdj5Og3UqsVn29z5xScsG4g8_2gfBoV2CI8HWUhS9I1FUq_kr10jU9S-GfBHqKQjrN5NPLz9vgmgWP1WT24Qqvgxo2cqZD12RbwjmoP_w1HrdmyQeUNtkD5L5-EiqDXlUISIf0/s1600-h/monocle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82PHgmUdj5Og3UqsVn29z5xScsG4g8_2gfBoV2CI8HWUhS9I1FUq_kr10jU9S-GfBHqKQjrN5NPLz9vgmgWP1WT24Qqvgxo2cqZD12RbwjmoP_w1HrdmyQeUNtkD5L5-EiqDXlUISIf0/s320/monocle.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>The meisters of specs at Vision Express have been confused and bewildered recently by a number of enquiries about monocles, so they are starting to sell them in London. They will cost £50 and come in a pouch, with a string to put around the wearer's neck. "It's one of those inexplicable fashion things," Vision's chief executive said last week. "We've had dozens of requests from customers in the past few months, so we thought we'd bring back the monocle on a trial basis. We're as puzzled as anyone by the interest."<br />
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Last seen on Bertie Wooster, Patrick Moore, a ventriloquist's toff dummy and a dotty duke or two, the monocle is a hapless piece of magnifying machinery. My grandmother used to have one and I could never fathom the thing - constantly falling out, you couldn't read more than a half a sentence at a time before you had to catch it and try and pop it back on. They were swiftly replaced by glasses that didn't fall off every time you moved your head or coughed and no one looked back.<br />
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Until now.<br />
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So what's happened - has the country suddenly suffered a case of one-eyed myopic syndrome? Is there a Daily Mail scare we should be aware of? Have years of squinting at iPhones, the tiny text on food labels and celebrities' cellulite in Heat magazine begun to wreak eyeball havoc?<br />
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No. Simply put - Posh Is Back. Along with double rows of pearls, Barbours and toffee noses, the monocle is the latest must-have style item.<br />
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As <a href="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/india_knight/article6954553.ece">India Knight</a> said about this recent phenomenon in her Sunday Times column:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px;">I was thinking how odd this was and then I remembered that the streets of fashionable Shoreditch, east London, are littered with young people wearing Barbours, strings of pearls and — spotted last week — those über-Sloane pie-crust collars. I find it too mind-boggling to analyse — let’s just say said young people weren’t on the way back from a weekend at the ancestral pile — but it rather cheers me up. Being a Hooray may be unhelpful if you’re a politician, but out there on the street it’s never been more fashionable.</span><br />
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(So excited has everyone been about this monocle revival story that it has been reported everywhere from the Daily Telegraph to LA Times and the Huffington Post.) It does make me wonder though - if the trendies of east London are prepared to go back that far in time for their fashion inspiration, what else might be up for grabs? Top hats? Crinolines? Walking canes? Let's just say, I look forward to getting off the tube at Liverpool St and tangling with the Labradors.<br />
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</span></span></span></span>Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7737802467627480190.post-11776797260309256962009-12-15T13:10:00.002+00:002009-12-15T15:44:52.055+00:00A lovely party at the Ritz and a Royal-spotting story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF8f3hUxx6OkR5wXFggqgZZp0eQRqN5ynyQZCsLsgr5Py3e5LFU9gvdMBd242XASq_rI8vrxAOl4-vwYpdeXCLg9mRwM8cJpI6WF1Hb6tOTYc0aAzTMaAerM1Pd2G-xVJCrJouuMv4mEE/s1600-h/wills+and+kate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF8f3hUxx6OkR5wXFggqgZZp0eQRqN5ynyQZCsLsgr5Py3e5LFU9gvdMBd242XASq_rI8vrxAOl4-vwYpdeXCLg9mRwM8cJpI6WF1Hb6tOTYc0aAzTMaAerM1Pd2G-xVJCrJouuMv4mEE/s320/wills+and+kate.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>I was out at the Ritz last night for their media Christmas party (I <i>do</i> love the Ritz - it should be naff, but isn't. They do everything beautifully, it's still the best tea in London and if you pass by soon please do pop in and gawp at their Christmas decorations. I particularly love the golden-headed deer) and there was plenty of PB spotting to be done, much to my delight.<br />
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One good story. A really rather posh woman, in a brilliant sequinned jacket (the pavements of London are lined with sequins this season) told of how she had some very smart New Yorkers staying with her last weekend, so decided to take them out to her favourite Chelsea restaurant. She booked the table late on Saturday morning and grimaced but bore it when told they could have a table at 7pm but would have to be out by 9.15pm. However, when she got there, a few minutes before her guests at 7pm, she discovered her table was in Siberia. "Simply the worst table ever and I kicked up SUCH a fuss. You've never known such a stinker. I even reduced myself to telling them that I knew the owner etc etc. It didn't work. We were stuck with the table."<br />
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But when they got there, squeezing to their table on the outer edges of social acceptability they found themselves thigh-by-thigh with Prince William and his girlfriend Kate 'Waity-Katy' Middleton. Their table was in fact in between Wills and Kate on one side, their bodyguards on the other.<br />
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This was pretty exciting for my posh acquaintance ("I tell you what, that man has the HOTS for her! I've never seen a man burning up for a girl like that!") but even more so for the New Yorkers who promptly started squealing: "Oh my gawd. I just CANNOT WAIT to go back and tell the Upper East Siders that even at the WORST table in a restaurant, you get to sit RIGHT NEXT TO ROYALTY!!"<br />
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PS And I now know Will's pet name for Kate. And no, I'm not going to tell you. But it's very sweet. They're a real life genuine couple as our New Yawk friends would say.Posh Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00429595959099495674noreply@blogger.com4