During a recent discussion regarding preferred dog species, my past failed relationship, and whether Charles Ryder needs to be so utterly homosexual in the 2008 release of Brideshead Revisited, Jack made a point that there was one factor that doomed my relationship to utter failure, before I even uttered a hello.

Class.

Now, living in United States and Canada does give one a different rationalisation on class. It is based on financial assets; therefore, it does not matter whether you are a Harvard MBA or a Hollywood DJ; upper class is upper class, end of discussion, without much regards for preferences. Of course, middle class do tend to frequent Sur la Table and buy extra virgin olive oil, but that is not the hallmark of class. It is how much you have in your bank account, not which bank you use.

Not quite so in England, Jack said (which was rather old news to me). Case in point: class is determined by your priorities which you inherit from generation to generation, despite the recent degeneracy that has been occurring. Therefore, a Tory’s son would most likely be a Tory, go to Oxbridge (or Edinburgh or Durham or London, depending), drink appropriate tea brand and eat certain foods. Because that’s how it is done in the family.

“That seems a bit bizarre,” I said. “What class am I?”

“Solidly middle, I’m afraid. You are the female version of Charles, worrying about everything and hanging on in quiet desperation.”

“How dull.”

Middle Class, said Jack, is formulated by a single, underlying philosophy: long-term thinking. Being the historical supporting class of Great Britain, they are the ones who have always received the brunt of political and social upheaval, and therefore, like to be prepared for disasters. Of course, this underlying philosophy has somewhat disappeared under the pretentious (not my word, but his) formalism, but it is still there. Therefore, you eat fair trade organic (healthy food means healthy body), go to museums on weekends (I don’t quite understand this one), send children to grammars or independent (better college means better university, which means more stability in life later on), select a few choice areas in which to use money (because that, in turn, actually means less expense after all).

Now, there are few random things that middle class do spend money on, Jack said. Tea for instance. And coffee. And wine. A middle class person goes to operas and ballet, play classical instrument quite often (why?), use Wedgwood or Royal Doulton dishes, sing happy birthdays in mortified hush in restaurants, agree that Thatcher was a good idea, listen to BBC radio and watch BBC1 (or 4? I’m never too sure, I do not possess the modern discovery called television).

“Alright,” I said, a bit huffy. “Explain how ANY of that works into my failed relationship with him and my rocky yet successful, undefined relationship with you.”

“Right.” He thought. “What tea does he drink?”

“Tea?! I’m asking you to explain the doom of my love and you’re asking me about tea?!”

“Tea is a big indicator, dear.”

“Tetley’s?”

“I could have told you that your relationship would never work out, just from that. You staunchly cling onto Twining’s.”

“What about Janet?”

“She’s African by origin. Different rules.”

What was I supposed to say?! Sarah and Jack both drink Twining’s. Ugh.

“Favourite author?”

“I have no idea.”

“Wait.” Jack paused. “You’ve known this fellow for over a year and you don’t know his favourite author?”

“No.”

"How curious. Favourite pastime?”

“Video games.”

“Doom yet again. Play an instrument?”

“Bass.”

“… Double bass?”

“No. The electric one.”

“See, Gabrielle,” Jack said, in a resolute tone, “you and he are too different, it’s almost as if you live in a different world. Can you imagine Harry playing bass?”

“Double bass?”

“No, the electric one.”

I pondered. I giggled. It is very difficult to imagine Harry playing electric anything.

“But his father’s a typical middle class, I think. Master’s degree and the sorts.”

“Gabrielle,” said Jack, “a child’s class is not determined by the father. It is determined by the mother, since the child has far more exposure than the father. I can assure you that you would never have associated with that fellow in real life.”

“School?”

“You went to a local independent. I doubt he did.” (He didn’t.)

Jack continued, ignoring my flabbergasted silence. “You have to realise that class plays a far larger role than any of us would like to admit. It determines the hobbies, interests, books we read, music we listen to, tea preference, newspaper, food, wine, to educational policies. There are blurred lines but there are people who’d fit in middle class anywhere in any recent historical period. You and he had nothing in common.”

“And you and I do?”

“More than what you and that fellow had, yes.”

“Are you insinuating that my relationship ended because of tea brands?”

“That’s symptomatic, not causal. And besides, let’s postulate that his mother is indeed from a good, British middle class…”

“Define good middle class.”

“Well, you know my mother. Would you think my mother would marry someone from the Commonwealth? American, maybe, as they are undeniably world’s superpower, but can you imagine my mother marrying an Australian?”

“Now you’re making it sound like Julia Marchmain and Rex Mottram.”

“And you see how that marriage ended.”

This sounds as if the conclusion is “if the family does not drink Twining’s, stay away”. This sounds preposterous to me. But I’m starting to sound like Michael Meacher, so maybe I should shut up.

Perhaps the British population fears being labelled “middle class” because it automatically means (nowadays, anyway) that you undeservedly receive the products of wealth (music lessons, ballet and opera, good wines, cheeses, e.t.c.) without working for it. I don’t think people realise that middle class may continue buying those things even during personal financial crisis. It’s the preference that makes one middle class, Jack said, not the ability to be one.

Anyway, I compiled this quiz to determine what class you are… I am an ashamed (or upper) middle class, apparently. Ah well. Here are the original quizzes, if you are interested in looking at them. They’re supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, so please don’t come shrieking at me for whatever answer you get.

The “Which Class Are You?” Quiz (Some only applicable to British residents!)

1. The politician you most admire is...

a) Margaret Thatcher. She got Britain interested in property. (10)
b) Margaret Thatcher. She saw off the Argies. (5)
c) Margaret Thatcher. Such fine ankles. (15)

2. The best way to lose weight is:

a) Going for a bracing walk on the moors with the dogs. (15)
b) Getting the NHS to provide you with a free stomach staple and cutting back on the body-building steroids. (5)
c) Stepping up your attendance at the gym and getting a few personal-training sessions under your Lycra. (10)

3. Your TV schedule highlights are:

a) Newsnight, University Challenge, Marple and Midsomer Murders. The more inquisition, the better! (10)
b) EastEnders, The Jeremy Kyle Show or anything with an ‘X’ in it. The more fighting, the better! (5)
c) Anything involving Professor Brian Cox or Sir David Attenborough. The more nature, the better! (15)

4. Your view on tax is:

a) It’s there to be dodged. Get paid in cash. (5)
b) I pay far too much of it. (10)
c) It’s there to be dodged. Put pay in offshore trusts. (15)

5. Museums are . . .

a) Always full of dead stuff with small labels on it. (5)
b) Always a good option for the children on a rainy weekend. (10)
c) Always asking one to be on the fundraising committee. It’s good not to say yes to too many. (15)

6. Your youth was spent:

a) In the Bullingdon Club. You’ve been trying to hide the photos ever since. (15)
b) In Borstal. You’ve been trying to bury the conviction ever since. (5)
c) At Bristol University. You’ve been trying to recreate the good old days ever since. (10)

7. When you feel nostalgic for your childhood, you:

a) Buy some chintzy Cath Kidston kitchenware. (10)
b) Thank God you live in the house you grew up in. (15)
c) Call Nan to be shouted at. (5)

8. You have a day to kill with the children. You:

a) Let them run riot on a National Trust estate. (10)
b) Let them run riot on council estate — avoiding men with shotguns. (5)
c) Let them run riot on the estate — avoiding men with shotguns. (15)

9. A dapper man wears:

a) His grandfather’s Savile Row and some well-worn tweed. (15)
b) Designer gear with no collar, high-waisted trousers and trainers — like Simon Cowell. (5)
c) A decent suit. (10)

10. Your daily journey is . . .

a) From the fridge to the sofa clutching a Red Bull. It takes about two minutes. (5)
b) On a Boris bike to work. (10)
c) From the parlour to the estate office. It takes about two minutes. (15)

11. Childhood ambition:

a) To be unemployed and to sit in the pub all day with your rellies playing darts. (5)
b) To be a web entrepreneur. You have plans to sell a loss-making website for a fortune and then spend the cash on installing central heating. (15)
c) To be gainfully employed at something respectable. (10)

12. Your male influence was:

a) Your dad. (10)
b) Your mum’s last boyfriend. (5)
c) Your grandfather, a war hero. (15)

13. Your female influence was:

a) Your mum. (10)
b) Nanny. Funny, your wife looks just like her. (15)
c) Your big sister, who turned out to be your mother. (5)

14. Eyebrow and hair colours that don’t match are:

a) Weird. Like Alistair Darling. (10)
b) For badgers. (15)
c) Glamorous. Like Jordan. (5)

15. Your views on tattoos:

a) The more the merrier — but they have to be obvious.
b) Gross.
c) Quite sweet, if discreet.

16. Your idea of a perfect evening's family entertainment is:

a) Trivial Pursuit. (10)
b) Charades. (15)
c) Everyone on the sofa with their own PSP (PlayStation Portable). (5)

17. Your views on vegetables:

a) No, ta. (5)
b) Organic only. (10)
c) Grown on the home farm with plenty of pesticide. (15)

18. Nails need to be . . .

a) Tastefully plain, with plain or light pink nail varnish. (10)
b) A full set of acrylics painted green with diamanté stuck on. (5)
c) A mess. (15)

19. Make-up must-haves:

a) False eyelashes, fake tan, plumped-up lips and spidery mascara. (5)
b) Practically nothing with shiny hair and a nice, jolly lipstick. (15)
c) Fresh-faced make-up — blusher, tinted moisturiser and a dash of eyeliner. (10)

20. Your idea of fast food is:

a) Jamie Oliver’s 30-minute meals — so long as you do the chopping fast. (10)
b) Super-sized, served in a bucket and costing 99p. (5)
c) Skipping the starter and eating pheasant from your own estate. (15)

21. You live in:

a) A council house. (5)
b) A mortgaged house. (10)
c) The Big House. (15)

22. Your cousins are:

a) Your cousins. (10)
b) Locked up. (5)
c) Distant, but they all appear in Debrett’s. (15)

You’re halfway there! Have a cuppa.

23. Kate Moss-style smoking on a catwalk with your bum on show is:

a) Perfection — fame and a fag. (5)
b) A terrible example to girls. (10)
c) Who cares? Fashion people are all mad anyway. (15)

24. You will be spending this August:

a) First on the estate in Scotland; then at the house we always take in Rock: the boys do so love the surfing in Polzeath, and Rick Stein's is just a ferry ride across the estuary. (15)
b) Magaluf; Benidorm; San Antonio in Ibiza - anywhere they do proper fish 'n' chips and English lager. (5)
c) Well they do say Croatia's on the up-and-up, though I do worry there might not be enough art galleries for Jonquil and Tarquin. (10)

25. In the morning you are awoken by the gentle strains of:

a) Radio 4's John Humphrys and Jim Naughtie talking about Jordan's politics. (10)
b) Radio 1's Chris Moyles raving about Jordan's knockers. (5)
c) James, your valet, murmuring a gentle reminder that Jordan's King, Abdullah II, may be dropping by for dinner. (15)

26. At breakfast you prefer:

a) India tea, freshly squeezed orange juice, then some kedgeree washed down with a spot of fizz. (15)
b) Warm water with a squeeze of lemon juice, fresh fruit, decaffeinated coffee, organic wholemeal porridge. (10)
c) Sunny Delight, Pop-Tarts, Coco Pops and a bowl of Sugar Puffs sprinkled with sugar substitute.(5)

27. You prefer to answer the call of nature in a:

a) Toilet (5)
b) Lavatory (10)
c) Loo (15)

28. At home, the central heating is:

a)The latest eco-friendly design with thermostatic controls which maximise fuel efficiency. (10)
b)Usually on full blast. (5)
c)Never turned on until the frosts in December. (15)

29. Your perfect pair of earrings are:

a) Big-hooped golden ones from somewhere mega-posh like Gucci. (5)
b) Chic, crafty ones from somewhere hip and recherche. (10)
c) Old, diamond ones from the family safe. (15)

30. Your most oft-repeated catchphrase on your first job was:

a) 'Doors to manual', as an air stewardess.(10)
b) 'Salt 'n' vinegar?' behind the bar at the Dog And Duck.(5)
c) 'No, sorry, can't, that's when Torty and I have our ski break,' as a chalet girl in Klosters. (15)

31. How many TVs do you own?

a) A crusty old black-and-white number, bought as a novelty item shortly after John Logie Baird invented it. (15)
b) One in the sitting room, one in our bedroom, and one for the au pair. Milo keeps nagging us to get one for his room but he'll have to wait until he's 16 - screens do play havoc with a child's reading development. (10)
c) Er, how many rooms have we got, 'Chelle? Is it ten or 11? Eleven then. Unless you count the new ones we've had put into the back of our car seats, so the kids can stay happy on car journeys. (5)

32. You refer to your grandmother as:

a) Nan (5)
b) Grandma/granny (10)
c) Tootles/MinMin/Gaia/Toto/ whatever eccentric agenon-specific nickname the old girl prefers: it's not too late, after all, for her to change the inheritance. (15)

33. You sleep with:

a) Lead-paned windows wide open even when there's a blizzard outside. (15)
b) UPVC windows tight shut and the electric blanket on. (5)
c) Newly installed sash windows, opened two inches, with a burglar lock. (10)

34. Your culinary role model is:

a) Jamie Oliver (10)
b) Mrs Beeton (15)
c) Colonel Sanders (5)

35. Your dog is:

a) Your best friend; marvellous with the kids too. (10)
b) Damned fine at retrieving fallen grouse, almost as good as the last one you unfortunately had to shoot because it was worrying sheep on the estate. (15)
c) A Staffy called Tyson, and I shouldn't get any closer mate. He'll 'ave your arm off. (5)

36. Your favourite wine is:

a) That claret Daddy laid down, now what is its name? Cheval-Blanc '47, or some such. Not that one cares - it's all bloody alcohol isn't it? (15)
b) Chardonnay. What's good enough for Coleen is good enough for me. (5)
c) That rather presumptuous Riesling we picked up in Waitrose last week, with a zingy apple nose and the faint notes of tar, yam and slightly overripe lychee. (10)

37. Guacamole is:

a) A marvellous avocado dip, which goes perfectly with tortilla chips. (10)
b) Frightful stuff. Can nobody run to caviar these days? (15)
c) Terrible place, where the Americans keep them poor orange prisoners locked up. (5)

38. Your children are called:

a) Shane, Jordan, Chevelle and Shareen. (5)
b) Milo, Jack, Zac and Poppy. (10)
c) Harriet, Emily, Freddie and Xan. (15)

39. You dress your salads with:

a) Cold-pressed single estate from Henry and Annabelle's place in Tuscany: £50 a bottle if one ever had to pay for such things. (15)
b) Sainsbury's Taste The Difference Italian Extra Virgin Oil. Bit pricey but you really can taste the difference. (10)
c) Salad cream. Obviously. (5)

40. The carpets in your house are:

a) Shagpile. (5)
b) Threadbare. (15)
c) Replaced by natural oak flooring. (10)

41. When travelling by car with another couple, what would the seating arrangements be?

a) Two men in front. (5)
b) Man with his own partner in front. (10)
c) Man with the other partner in front. (15)

42. At Christmas you spend roughly how much on each of your children?

a) Less than £50. (15)
b) Between £50 and £150. (10)
c) More than £150. Spending on the kiddies. It's what Christmas is all about. (5)

43. There is egg on your chin. Do you wipe it off with:

a) A serviette? (10)
b) A napkin? (15)
c) The back of your sleeve? (5)

44. Do you send your children to:

a) An old public school? (15)
b) The local school? (5)
c) A church school near which you have moved? (10)

 

RESULTS:

0 to 250 - You are a fearful oik. The closest you can ever hope of getting to Posh is if one of your children marries into the Beckham family.

260 to 340 - You are lower-middle class. You dream of higher things but you're trying too hard. Maybe you think fish knives are smart (they're not) and you probably pronounce the letter aitch as 'haitch'. Give up now.

350 to 470 - You are desperately upper-middle class. You fret far too much about everything (global warming, your children's manners, how to cook perfect polenta). You are doomed to be sneered at as a poncey imbecile by the lower orders and despised as an incorrigible bourgeois by your social superiors.

500 to 600 - You live in a damp, unheated house. You live like a savage. You are quite possibly the victim of centuries of inbreeding. You are upper class and the perfect match for Wills and Harry.

MORE than 600 - You are hopelessly, irredeemably upper class. Even the vulgar, arriviste Windsor family are too common for you. More likely, you are a huge cheat and a ghastly social climber who looked up all the right answers.

 

Some of them make little sense and some of them I can see the reasoning behind it right away. Quite a few of them made me laugh out loud (IE: Questions 6, 8, and 14… 8 in particular, because in the original quiz choices B and C are identical). Anyway, I’m apparently a poncey imbecile/incorrigible bourgeois. What were you?