Me and the lunch time excursions

Moving schools in the Sixth Form was not such a great idea.  Friendships had already formed and, apart from being invited to the lunchtime prayer group, the girls weren't very friendly. The top dogs at school were a group of girls called Ellen; (there were 3 Ellens and their satellites were also known as  'The Ellens' - think 'Heather' just not as  friendly).  The Ellens went for a team strip - long, straight hair with fringes, Wrangler jeans and lambswool v-neck jumpers in pastel shades - I could never fit in - I think I might have had the remains of the ill-fated perm, was a Levis girl and favoured my Dad's shirts (I refer you to    Nan and the party dress  and   Me and the perm).  On my first day the chief Ellen asked me if my father was a don (this is Oxford - so I am being asked if my Pater teaches at the University, not if he is a Corleone or if he was a Wimbledon FC supporter - before the days of schism).  I say no and she doesn't speak to me for the next two years.

In my English class there is another new girl - Annie.  She is very confident and I'm not sure if I like her - although I like her jeans.  But it turns out we have mutual acquaintances and become bosom buddies; complaining about the school and the Ellens (just who do they think they are?).  We are allowed out of school during lunchtime and spend a fair number of them cycling off to Annie's house (her parents are at work, rather than liberal-types who encourage truancy), eating all their food and washing it down with sips of whisky- not because we liked it, just because we could. We would then top the bottle up with cold 'milkless' tea.  Post-lunch history lessons are quite blurry and after a term we give up our lunch-time excursions and stayed in the Sixth Form common room - I think it might also having something to do with her Dad discovering his single-malt tasted a bit strange.

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.