A Class Act
by Carol Wolrich
Email: carol.a.w@blueyonder.co.uk
She wears faded, twice-repaired
boots,
which were a bargain in the
sales.
Her jokes are not art-full of
meaning.
Her smile is slightly lopsided,
unlike
her virtues.She laughs from the depths
of her background, but never
at you.
Your shoes are bespoke, as polished
and trim as your manicured hands.
She bites her nails; this charms
and annoys you. You are cultivated-
cashmere. She is seventy per
cent
of whatever she can afford.
She worries that your shoeshine
will glare on her faults. And
what
if she picks the wrong spoon?
Will you disown her? Blush for
her?
You worry that her regional
accent
will lower the tone of your
vowels.
She asks you to join her and
squelch
in tough puddles, if you dare.
Instead, you arrange a date
for a black tie affair, with
a girl
called Miranda, who has high-profile
hair and a horse called Pashmina.
You think of her all night,
but
think, too, of how a comprehensively
poor education would show up
badly
by day. And you chatter comfortably
over cocktails, about how good
it is
that the class system is dead.