These days, I’m not sure what class I am. I know I grew up skint – proper skint: free school meals, social housing, keeping the windows closed in case the bailiffs get in – and the experiences of those years still preoccupy my mind. I know I’ll never inherit anything (unless you count diabetes) and as your common-or-garden debt-laden millennial, I suspect ever owning any assets is out of the question.
But a few years ago, I stopped going into my overdraft every month. I no longer needed a payday loan to cover financial gaps. I landed a professional job. Some of the people I worked with went to private school. I bought theatre tickets. I stopped throwing my cheese rind away. I bought cheese that had a rind. That constant, gnawing fear of running out of money – the thing that keeps you working every hour under the sun – was growing weaker.
In fact, my friends from school now call me “posh spice”, presumably because I went to uni and because I’m Asian, although if I must have an Asian-themed musical nickname, I always preferred Chapatti Smith. Happily, my family still keep me grounded. We still gift each other necessities for occasions rather than desirables (“Happy Birthday, Mum – I got the washing machine fixed”).
Anyway, the point is, I am (probably) middle class now. And can I say, it’s a bit of all right; absolute result, actually. I’m still getting used to it. I don’t know if it will last for ever, but while I’m here, I’m giving it both barrels. Bring me your gilets and TV shows about gardens! Bring me your unessential Essentials range at Waitrose! And in this spirit, this week I did the ultimate middle-class thing: I went camping in France.
“It’ll be cheap,” my friends promised. Believing that was my first mistake. Especially when this brand of camping is less about being at one with nature and more about creating a smaller version of your existing house. Some people had electricity, others a hanging pantry and one guy even brought his own parmesan grater! I knew the middle classes liked having multiple properties, but I didn’t think the summer tent counted.
I had fun, sure, but what’s the point of a portable hammock when there’s an epic castle nearby to spend time in? Who needs a blow-up pool when there’s an actual lake next door? If anything, some of those adults there could learn a lesson from me: just because it costs more, doesn’t mean it’s better.
