As Posh As Possible

There was absolutely no doubt that from the time I was three or four years old I was determined to sound as posh as was humanly possible. I now lie the blame for this uncommon youthful obsession entirely at the feet of the BBC and the fact that in the first part of the 1940s my mother spent a great deal of time listening to what was then called the Wireless and urging me to shush whilst she did so. Bored three year olds are not especially good at observing prolonged periods of silence, at least I wasn’t. The soothing tones of John Snagge and Alvar Liddell rapidly became as reassuring as the rather less attractive timbre of my closest relatives and if it had been possible I would have followed Snagge wherever he chose to lead me. Sadly he was totally unaware of my existence.

I did make some attempt to tone down what I fondly imagined was my totally authentic newfound Poshness when in conversation with close family and neighbours from the lower part of York Road but these attempts were not always consistent. When I started school and became dazzled by what seemed to me to be a veritable swathe of upper class teaching staff I reserved my very finest BBC accent for them and relaxed considerably with my fellow pupils. This resulted in the staff deciding that I was quite clearly an adopted child as it was obvious I had not been brought up by the woman who claimed to be my mother, and the children avoiding me as much as possible. My observant and much hated cousin George from the Waterdales Hendys told me I was a Big Head and his sister Connie said that wasn’t really true – I was just a bit Snooty. Their mother, Aunt Lou, an anxious woman on account of her many children advised that her formidable husband, Uncle Walter, had commented more than once that I was becoming High and Mighty and you had to wonder how my poor father who would soon return from fighting a war would think of that. We were all very much in awe of Uncle Walter and so this caused my mother to look at me nervously and later tell me to try to speak properly like everybody else. The last thing I intended was to sound like everybody else and so I was quite elated at my vocal success. Becoming Posh had turned out to be remarkably painless!

Once I learned to read and was able to delve into the lives of Enid Blyton’s unashamedly middle class families simply being possessed of acceptable and perhaps even correct vowel sounds was not good enough. I wanted to be the sort of person who exclaimed -Rather! on a regular basis and had Wizard Summer Hols. Of course the downside of all this role-play though theoretically harmless was that my St Botolph’s classmates maintained their distance. I didn’t mind too much as the urge to use words like Spiffing more than compensated. Molly from number 31 York Road remained my friend throughout these rather troubled times and simply told me in a very adult manner that Enid Blyton didn’t suit everybody but it was clear she was helping me to make a rod for my own back.

With the passage of time the desire to sound Posh got worse rather than better and I longed to be the kind of young person who referred to situations as either Jolly Good or Beastly. I dreamed of conversations that would include me being able to say someone was a Frightful Bore or that an event was Simply Thrilling. I desperately desired to attract a boyfriend who would describe me as Rather Ravishing or tell his friends that I was a Brick. The closest I came to reaching these lofty heights was meeting a duffle-coated young man who worked as a trainee reporter for the Kent Messenger and said things like Feeling Seedy after a night out drinking when he apparently got Pretty Tight. As our eyes met over cappuccinos in the newly opened coffee bar in Harmer Street I almost felt it might turn out to be love at first sight. His name was John and I still recall his exact tone when he said Bad Luck Old Thing and called me A Fearful Ass though why the comments were made is lost in the mists of time. It soon became apparent that apart from his oh so desirable way of expressing himself we actually had very little in common which he seemed to work out pretty quickly and when he was forced to introduce me to his mother shopping in Chiesemans one Saturday afternoon she apparently confirmed the very sensible assumption he had made. At the time I felt this was a shame because I would have been more than prepared to accept that we didn’t have to be the perfect couple as long as his conversation continued to be peppered with upmarket phrases. However it was clearly not to be.

I frequented Harmer Street less especially once John acquired a girlfriend called Felicity who had attended a boarding school. But the longing for a more elegant and genteel life did not leave me. However, mostly during those difficult teen years I confined myself to saying Gosh or Golly a lot which only caused minimal disgruntlement from others and the York Road neighbours who had known me all my life barely noticed. It took many years for the desire to join the upper classes diminished entirely and somewhat sadly I never managed to do so. However, I did receive one offer of marriage from a decidedly upper crust suiter called Edwin who told me he would be Frightfully Honoured if I would consent to being his wife. I vaguely considered him but admit to being put off by what he described as his Beastly sexual practices.