I am Posh

I am posh. This is something I have had to come to terms with. I am posh. I have known this for years and have been repeatedly told by many but I can now finally stand on a chair (or maybe a small stool) and shout “I AM POSH!”

Now this epiphany began on a day out not that long ago with a male friend. Our conversation: him: “You know what? I couldn’t go out with you” me, after much hysterics: “Good thing I don’t like you like that then. But why do you say that?” “We’re too different. (after much consideration) You’re too posh.” “How?” At this point, ladies and gentlemen, there were some rather brilliant comparison to show our comparative poshness. I would like to share some of these belters with you:
1) I’m Pret, he is McDonalds
2) I’m holiday in South France, he is holiday in Southend
3) I’m a country estate he’s a council estate.
These were the best ones. Our conversation was halted, however, as I nearly had an asthma attack from laughing so hard.

When I went home I thought about this. Yes, I have spent a long time being told that I am posh as I don’t talk with a regional accent and would have to describe myself as middle class but I had never considered my self as posh. Posh people are call m’lady or mam, with last names like Bottomly or Fortescue, have villas in south France and have pet ponies. I have none of these and therefore have never considered myself posh, more normal. Recently I have been told that you can tell I’m posh by the way I walk and that the I am the poshest person they have ever met.

Is this ridiculous? Had I gone to a private school I would be considered normal or, to coin the phrase from a favourite Tory minister, a pleb. But it’s a good life lesson to learn, that not everyone is as well off or like you, something some politicians could do with learning.


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