Class

This week the Great British class calculator has been doing the rounds with people either gloating, being despondent or genuinely surprised at its results. I obviously had to have a go, and I may have secretly started to compare myself to other results I saw floating about online. One interesting thing I discovered was that people I knew were spanning the whole seven groups from Elitist to Precariat. Make what you like from that.

If you're interested I came out slap bang in the middle as a New Affluent Worker which apparently makes me 'young, from a working class background and a home owner'. Well, one of those is definitely right; I'm a houseowner. I don't know what the criteria for 'young' is but I feel I may have shifted out of that one by now. And as for the class? I remember my sociology A-level tutor making the statement that I was middle class due to my dad being an accountant. A sweeping generalisation maybe and I don't how true that really was. I was however raised comfortably, my dad worked hard and funded my university education, a fact my husband has always used to have a dig at me, we went to National Trust properties, we were season ticket holders at Norwich City Football Club, we had holidays on the North Norfolk coast - never going abroad as my dad would say "There's far too many lovely places to see in our country". All in all a balanced upbringing not wanting for much.

Fast forward twenty odd years and life is so different yet so similar. The husband has been through redundancy and is now working hard and taking the risk of opening his own lab. I have to work now whereas a year ago I was a SAHM. We're trying our hardest to give the children the best start in life and be grateful for what they have. I can't see us being able to afford to pay for their university education - my husband says even if we could we won't, I disagree. They are smiley, gracious, polite children more than happy to spend their summer holiday in a tent at a music festival. Will that last? I don't know. Their friends have been to Disneyland and the like but they have yet to nag to go to these places. I hope this lasts. They have a roof, that may need a bit lot of TLC, over their heads but they are aware of my desperation for a larger house where, if I desired, I could swing a cat in the kitchen. I do need to stop going on about this though, the house, not the cat, as Alban is started to compare.

Alban: "X's mummy's kitchen is MAAAAAAAAASIVE and he has a playroom. I've got the smallest room in the house."

Me: "No, Alban, I think you'll find I've got the smallest room in the house. The kitchen? Remember? [mutters under my breath]."

I just can't help myself to moan though. And get bitter. And annoyed. Which I know is really unpleasant. I must stop doing this and be more grateful for what we have. I am such a hypocrite.

What do you think? Is it all a pile of tosh? Should we care?

Anyway, I must stop wittering as I have homemade soup simmering away on the Aga hob and The Guardian and a cup of Earl Grey is awaiting me. That class calculator clearly has me all wrong.

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