I am mingling with the middle classes
this weekend, having been invited
to a wealthy relative’s swanky dinner party.
I am mingling with the middle classes
where there are rules and etiquette,
like we’re playing chess rather
than socialising for fun.
I remind myself not to swear,
to drink my beer from the glass
not the can,
and not to get so drunk I slur.
If I take my jumper off I will remember
to knot it around my shoulders
rather than tie it round my waist.
I will remember to pronounce
the letter G at the end of my sentences
even though the conversation is boring,
I will remember that talking about holidays
is a competitive sport, like playing poker,
destinations visited are laid down like cards,
that long-haul trumps a package holiday,
and that a vacation in this country
isn’t worth the jet-lag.
I will remember to bid even the most
rude and pompous of guests
a good evening, adding that it was lovely to meet them,
even though they look down their nose.
I will be travelling by bus, but, I assume,
the others will ride over on their high horse.
I will remember to go to my local pub
and meet with real people next weekend.