As I type, there are two Russian females in the flat. A mother and a daughter. We are paying them money to clean up the mess we leave behind.
Oh man, it’s a weird feeling. It’s nice to have the floors suddenly sparkle without having to lift a finger, though. It’s great to see the bath miraculously not have the scum rings on it anymore. All that and more, just for opening my wallet and giving these ladies a couple of notes.
I always used to wonder how a person, and this seems far more alive a concept for British people, how a person changed class. It seems there are certain walls that can’t be broken down: working or middle class folk can never be upper class and the toffs can never come down to our level. But that working-to-middle class barrier is fairly easily hurdled.
I always thought of myself as working class cos my Dad was a miner… no, he wasn’t, that’s a lie. My dad began his career as a carpenter. My mum has done various jobs, none of which required an office. My father’s parents were a bus driver and a factory worker. All this is pretty archetypal working class, I’d say. But my dad was a bit fancy, did some schoolin’ and book learnin’ and became an architectural technician. But, in attitude and lifestyle we were still watching the pennies and eating egg and chips.
Then I come along, with my fancy pencils and cartridge paper, thinking I’m some kinda artist. And I go off to art college and university and end up being a self-employed illustrator with fancy clients all over the world, who’s left his native country and is living in one of Europe’s coolest cities.
I’m guessing that means I’m getting close to being middle class. Well, getting close, maybe, until there’s two Russians cleaning your toilet; then I think I’ve got to being middle class. And maybe all this is what they call middle class guilt.
I wonder if I’ll start reading the Daily Mail and hating the gays and the immigrants soon? I already peak through the curtains and my scary neighbour across the street…