Me and being working class

I make a new friend at secondary school called Holly who invites me to her house for the weekend.  We have fun staying up late and eating sweets in bed (an innocent age).   On the first morning I go down to breakfast in my pyjamas - the family are all bundled up in dressing gowns.  The next morning I get up to go to the loo and hear Holly's parents talking - I quickly realise they are talking about me and, of course, can not resist listening.  Holly's mother says, 'She is a nice little girl, but I'm not sure she is quite the friend I want for Holly.'
Holly's father says, 'I think they get on quite well.'

Mother then asked him if he hadn't noticed that I came down to breakfast without a dressing gown which indicates I am working class.

What is this thing called working class?  I feel uncomfortable all day and can't wait to go home to ask my Dad.  Dad laughs and confirms that I am working class, but that it is something to do proud of.  Mum is cross and asks why on earth didn't I pack a dressing gown as I have a perfectly respectable one upstairs.  The reason I didn't take it was because there was no room in my bag.


I often wonder if this early trauma explains why I have an excess of dressing gowns hanging in my bedroom?  My favourite being a genuine Japanese kimono; it has enormous sleeves with deliberately gaping holes under the armpits (not to be worn when starkers as somewhat revealing).  It is sky blue and decorated with pictures of water lilies, chrysanthemums and peonies - great for tripping around the house while pretending to be a geisha.  I also have a sensible shortish grey jersey dressing gown for wearing over shorts - if I ever take up boxing I could wear it into the ring.  The least favourite, which rarely gets an outing, is a white towelling robe - not  all flattering as it makes me look like a non-cute polar bear - think this should be discarded forthwith.

Sleepwalking at Nan-next-door's house

I am about five and live with Nan-next-door during the week. My bedtime routine never varies: get changed for bed, come downstairs for a nightly lettuce sandwich, watch Grampy cleaning the shoes (daily routine inculcated by the army) and take as long as possible saying goodnight.
 
I hate going to bed  - I suffer from insomnia, loneliness and the dark.  Also the longer I can stay up the more opportunity there is for the family to admire the new nighttime attire I got for Christmas. This consists of a dressing gown in a soft, pale blue quilted fabric decorated with images of frolicking bunnies. It has a peter-pan collar and rabbit-shaped buttons.  Accessorised with a pair of fluffy bunny slippers it is both warm and whimsical - what more could a girl ask for?  I spend a lot of time swishing around in said outfit, smoothing it down and fiddling with the buttons.  The family responds satisfactorily with 'Don't you look sweet', 'Who's our little bunny' and other such nonsense - I adore it.

Sadly after a few months I am the only person who is still in love with my 'bunny-girl' outfit and I miss their nocturnal attention.  But all is not lost - thanks to an idea gleaned from 'Tom and Jerry'.

I am put to bed; five minutes later I hop up, put on the slippers and gown and head downstairs. Pushing open the sitting room door I enter with half-closed eyes (don't want to risk falling) and stick my arms out in front of me (sleepwalking à la Jerry -  before he wakes up and beats Tom to a pulp).  The response from my captive audience is gratifying - although I don't like the way my uncle sniggers every time I get near him.  To give more of a show I head into the kitchen; but have to beat a hasty retreat as the lights are off  and it is scary.  This results in me being 'woken up' gently and spending an extra half-hour downstairs.  A good strategy I decide that becomes a nightly occurrence until Nan takes my beloved dressing gown and slippers out of the room at night.