I'm a legal alien

Faithful readers may remember previous trips I've taken into the depths of the countryside to visit my friend Nicole, she of storecupboard fame. What has surprised me is that my visits don't seem to become any more normal the more frequently I make them. In fact, gorgeous though our chats are, I feel less like a friend when I'm in her house and increasingly like a beloved yet curious Martian. She meets me at the station in a four wheel drive. Often, there are child seats in the back, dachshunds at my feet and a Labrador in the boot. On arrival at her home, there are squawks of excitement from her adorable brood who LOVE me because I always bring them a strong assortment of hairclips from London. There is a lot of kissing, giggling, hiding behind legs, cajoling, tickling and eventual clambering. Then we have dinner. This has been prepared in advance in gargantuan batches - dauphinoise potatoes, fish pie, stew, soup - all made and frozen like the truly organised thing she is. In London, I eat home cooked food, no joke, about once or twice a month. Breakfast is cereal at my desk, lunch is bought at Pret or similar, dinner is restaurant or more cereal. It's lovely: we're separated by pretty much everything but friendship.

Occasionally Nicole invites people over to dinner while I'm staying. This weekend I was privy to a few gems including someone describing their prospective new vehicular purchase as, "an Audi probably, nothing flashy, nothing like one of those small Mercedes... nasty hairdressers' cars." And I heard the following (male) response to the question "How are the kids?" which I SWEAR I have transcribed verbatim. You won't struggle to imagine the accent:
"Oh they're fine... Actually, I say they're fine... barely seen them... was out shooting all day, came back, they run towards you shouting Daddy, Daddy!, it's very sweet, and then they go to bed... Ideal!"

The man in question is absolutely charming, handsome and lovely, but freely admits we live on different planets. Weeks go by when he doesn't see anyone who's not white - and when it does happen, he always notices that he's a bit startled, like "Oh! A black man!" I told him that there are times when I'm the only white person on the bus and he looked a bit concerned.

He was also sweetly forthcoming about Muddy Matches, a dating website I discovered this weekend for country singletons: a photo on the homepage shows a man and a woman in matching tweed flatcaps, and if you don't want to post a photo of yourself you can upload a picture of your wellies. I expressed surprise to my dinner companion (married, four kids) about the website, suggesting that it would be of interest to my urban friends as a countryside curio. He was adamant that it's normal that like should be attracted to like, which is of course unarguable. He couldn't see what the problem was - and another dinner guest asked what was the difference between looking for someone who likes hunting on Muddy Matches and going onto Guardian Soulmates and looking for someone who likes going to gigs and the cinema. Gingerly, I suggested that there's a slight difference in accessibility between going shooting and going to the cinema, and that perhaps Muddy Matches and its ilk meant that the lack of demographic variety in the countryside probably wouldn't change any time soon. He happily agreed. In short, they know they're in a bubble, and they're very content there. And honestly, I don't have a problem with it, as long as they treat everyone else as equals.

Then I found out that, of the 12 people at dinner on Saturday night, two were Catholics and nine were on the Alpha course. And here I hit a slight wall. Now, I can totally understand someone wanting to live in the place they've grown up, particularly if they've had a happy childhood. I can easily see how unpleasant city life must seem if you're used to a village existence. And it's clear why the simplicity of village life lends itself to Christian evangelism - no Muslims or gays to mess with the 'logic'. But just because I understand it, doesn't mean I have to like it.

In my ideal world, there'd be no religion: I object on principle to any faith that promotes their path as the right one (which rules out pretty much all of them), as I believe this inevitably creates divisions and thus conflict among followers. I don't like the suggestion that there's one route that's better than any other - and for that reason, I'm annoyingly not able to be a humanist either. I just want us all to be good, kind, generous social citizens, respectful and tolerant of difference. I simply cannot see how that's compatible with evangelical Christian evening classes, which teach that homosexuals and non-followers are destined for hell. Anyway, since my faithlessness prevents me from crusading (as I'm not arrogant enough to think that my way would be better for you than the one you've chosen), this is one battle I'm certain to lose. In the meantime, I'll generously allow people of faith to do just as they please, so long as they're lovers, not fighters. Fighters can go jump.

Despite all the feelings of foreignness (and let's be clear: these people are happy, and I'm not - so who's losing out? I have no illusions), I did enjoy my 48 hours on Planet Rural, with the exception of a couple of altercations with Alice who is fascinated with the fact that my thighs are at least twice the girth of her mother's, and who suggested that I should cut bits off them "with scissors", her small fingers helpfully indicating the strips where I could start my self-mutilation. She and her younger sister also asked to see my bottom about seven hundred times. But it was truly ace to hang out with Nicole, great to walk in the crisp autumnal air, delicious to gorge on her incredible crumble and wonderful to be lain on by her three warm offspring while we watched Stuart Little. I came back to London yesterday evening, studied Take That performing together live on The X Factor results show, felt the familar teenage obsession levels bubble up again, noted Robbie's panicked eyes and refusal to talk to Dermot about the future, worried about Mark's visible need for Rob's presence, saw that Gary, Jay and Howard are still rightly suspicious, and then remained concerned about my own sanity for a bit before it was time to hit the city hay.

Barbour black sheep

I read this article today about the renaissance of poshness in British society. To nutshellise, it claims that 'normal' people are dressing like posh people by wearing Barbours, which proves that being posh isn't seen as such an awful thing as it used to be. Weirdly, I agree with the conclusion, but not the hypothesis. I do feel that the upper classes, plummy accents and country pursuits are sneered at less now than they were two decades ago, and I concur with the journalist who suggested that this shift has happened because Thatcher seems a long time ago, and the new enemies are bankers and global corporations, not colonial landowners. The toffs aren't the ones ruining the UK any more, so it's OK to like them. I see the logic in this argument, but I think it's bollocks. Ultimately, massive capitalist and corporate greed is more dangerous and damaging than a yearning for some sort of golden era of pre-war clarity where everyone knew their place. But they both suck. And being governed by a pack of Old Etonians might seem reassuringly familiar in this time of uncertainty, but not all that is familiar is good.

And anyway, I don't think the hipsters who are wearing Barbour jackets want to look posh. The people buying them are in their early twenties and have lived under a Labour government for most of their lives - they can't remember why everyone used to hate the upper classes. Even if they have a vague understanding of the concepts of class wars, snobbery and social immobility, they care more about looking different and ironic than politically active. In the nineties, Burberry was subversive for a bit, sported by Kate Moss, but then it filtered down to Oasis and the Appletons and, almost overnight, became a uniform for aspirational working classes. Then it disappeared out of the public eye altogether. Now it's back, the telltale tartan is used discretely if at all, and the brand is quietly unaffordable once again. These things move in entirely predictable waves.

Whatever happens, even if Barbour-wearing becomes compulsory for anyone under 35, this is one bandwagon I won't be joining. In the days of yore, during my bowl-haircut, alabaster-pale, pony-crazed early teen years, before I fell in love with Joey MacIntyre from New Kids On The Block, I had a waxed jacket, and although I concede its waterproofing abilities, I detested its singular smell and the fact that it was uniquely useless at keeping me warm. It was like wearing a dark, condensation-filled army tent, smelling of dogs, discomfort and heart-rending homesickness, and I hated it. The trendy Hoxtonites can sport 'em all they like, but as the snow falls in London, you'll see me snuggled up in my M&S coat and my H&M fake fur bonnet, looking something like a cross between an elf and a panda, and happy as a clam.

Oops

Well, now I've upset my mum with what I wrote yesterday. And I didn't mean to do that, really I didn't. I probably sound spoilt and ungrateful for all the sacrifices they made to put me through school and university. And for that, I apologise wholeheartedly. I know they were doing their best and I am incredibly lucky and grateful to have such loving and wonderful parents. I guess I just struggle with middle class guilt, and it's made me into an inverse snob, and I should keep schtum. But then... I do find class issues endlessly fascinating, and keeping schtum is, surely, one surefire way to perpetuate the status quo. Really all I wanted to say was that I don't like posh people who think they're better than non-posh people. Anyway. I feel better now I have got it off my chest, and I have always known that my opinions are riddled, RIDDLED with contradictions and half-baked rubbish (mmmm, half-baked...) and, let's face it, it's easy for me to say I don't want to send my kids to private school when a) I don't have any and b) I would never be able to afford it. Current fees at my ol' alma mater are £9300 a term, although you do get a £300 discount if you pay by monthly direct debit. Phew. But were I to wake up tomorrow and find myself in the possession of a toddler and a multi-million pound inheritance (the thought is strangely terrifying), I don't know what I would do. I know what I think is best for the country. But can I put my (fictional) money where my mouth is? There's only one way to find out. I better get pregnant.

Confusion leads to sanctimonious rant

Yesterday I read this article which explained how independent/public/private/fee-paying schools in Britain try to justify their charitable status. I doubt it will be surprising that I didn't agree with its contents. Then last night I went to a gig at the Royal Festival Hall. The turnout was pretty broad, fairly white, but a wide age-range had turned out to see 19-year-old folk starlet Laura Marling perform with her posse of other rising folk starlets. I have had Laura's album for about a year having bought it on the strength of the 30-second snippets on iTunes and its Mercury Prize nomination. And I really like it. She has a beautiful voice and sings with clarity and honesty. It's not the world's best album, but given her age, it's an impressive debut. I was looking forward to seeing her live. The lights dimmed, and a large screen lit up at the back of the stage. Footage filmed by Laura showed her interviewing some of the other musicians in her group of comrades. Everyone was attractive and supportive, full of mutual love and respect. It would all have been simply wonderful, except I was too busy bristling uncontrollably: the accents from the people on screen were as Sloaney as Prince Charles drinking Earl Grey in a Barbour, standing on a croquet lawn with a black Lab. I couldn't bear it. The singer I'd come to see wasn't a carefree hippie - she was a privileged toff. A privileged toff just like me. I was furious.

I have a chip on my shoulder the size of Eton. This isn't a recent problem but lately I've noticed it getting worse. The Glastocrush has just moved in from the decidedly gritty Uxbridge Road to a friend's place in Holland Park. The houses are stunning, the delis are exclusive, the pubs are full of well-behaved Harrovians, the pavements are wide, the flaneurs are carrying Alexander McCall Smith, the dogs are not bred to kill and people turn their James Blunt CDs down after 10pm so as not to wake the baby. It couldn't be more different to my hood. Most people would, I'm sure, secretly love to live somewhere so luxurious and safe. What's not to like? But for some reason, it makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable. I can't work out why. Then the other night, when I met a guy my age who had never had a job, instead of being jealous, I instinctively went on the attack. And when someone talked about rolling back the rug in their parents' house at Christmas time and doing some reeling, I found myself panicking.

What is going on? I, after all, was privately educated, at vast expense to my parents. I know the Dashing White Sargeant. I can hold my own at a dinner party. To my distinct irritation, I don't sound or look remotely out of place in Fulham. I've been to the Feathers, the 4th of June, Boujis and Cartier Polo (although admittedly the last was as a waitress). I know not to hold a knife like a pen, not to butter the bread all at once, to tip the soup bowl away from me and pass the port clockwise. I write thank you letters in fountain pen. Several people I know are friends with members of the royal family. Despite all attempts to adopt a more estuary twang every now and then, on the whole, my rich, plummy accent would sound fantastic on Watch With Mother. So how can I be negative about posh people when I've had exactly the same advantages, when I am one of them? As a result of my spoon-fed education, I received good exam results and went to a good university where I got a good degree - all in all, a good start in life. Spending seven of the most formative years of one's life (11-18) at a small boarding school means that you make close friends - I've just looked at my phone's contacts list, and out of our year of around 50 girls, I still have the phone numbers of 20, and see most of them regularly, just under fourteen years after we left. I am incredibly grateful for those friends. And there's no doubt that, while my schooldays were occasionally miserable, and the education I received was questionable, I did have moments when I had a brilliant time.

Still, if I could ban private education, I would. As discussed when I was loving my politics course, I believe strongly in equality of opportunity, and I'm fairly clear that private education simply doesn't allow that. I can't change my past, but I can state my belief that, in an ideal future, all of Britain's schools would be run by the state. I am convinced that only with the intervention of parents will schools improve, and the more rich, powerful parents who choose to withdraw their children from the state system, the more that state schools will decline.

I guess that, while I am not exactly ashamed of the fact that I had a private education, I want people to know that I don't believe it is fair, or right, and that I do not support inequality. And I guess that, while I think it's fine to have been to public school, what is not fine is to act as if the undeniable privilege and advantage that comes from that experience is a birthright. Basically - I'm fine with toffs as long as they are, like me, slightly uncomfortable with their toffness. Revelling in the toffness is, to me, a bit gross. Never making an effort to leave the bubble is, to me, a bit gross. Whether it's the yummy mummies in Holland Park, the chummy guffaws from the men's bar at a centuries-old golf club, the chattering at the organic farmers' market in the Oval or the clink of gin glasses from inside a gated community in South Africa, there's something that makes me cringe about this unspoken preference for PLUs.

I know, I know - people will always be different and birds of a feather will always flock together. And the hypocrisy of me saying 'Love all the people' while saying 'I don't like toffs' isn't lost on me. I guess what I'm trying to say is, things aren't great now. The divides are massive. Let's not exacerbate them by saying 'My four year old's education is worth more than yours.' Different is not better or worse. It's just different. Pitbulls aren't worse than spaniels. Garage music isn't worse than Mozart. Cannabis isn't worse than yoga. Everyone lives their own life. Judgment is wrong - right? You can't live in London and ignore the poverty, the gangs, the total hopelessness of many of your neighbours. You can't live in a rural village in your gorgeous converted farmhouse and pretend that there's not shit going down all around you. Well, you can. You can be an ostrich. But that seems so sad, so final. It's giving up. And I don't want to give up. Surely it would be preferable if we worked at this together. If we can't send our kids to the same schools, then what chance do we have?

That said, my friend once told me that she was all up for state education for her daughter until she looked round her local primary schools, one private, one state, and said the difference was so palpable as to be horrific and made her do everything in her power to find the extra thousands she needed to send her daughter to the private primary. You can be a liberal all you want, she seemed to be saying, but once you become a mother, everything will change. So, like her, I reserve the right to be a complete and utter hypocrite.