Being shamelessly middle class – and apologising for it…

You go away for 24 hours and you come back fully aware that you need to shout it loud and proud.

My kids go to private school because it never entered my head that there was an alternative. Or words to that effect.

My name’s Tattie Weasle and I AM Middle Class.

If there’s one thing I learnt during my brief sojourn in Town (London for the uninitiated) at the glorious Britmums Live event, is that to have an authentic voice you need to be true to yourself.

For years I have been apologising for being Middle Class. In fact that is one of the traits of being Middle Class (pronounced “Clarse” as in arse) – forever saying that you’re sorry for being so.

That being so, I now humbly beg forgiveness.

If I were Working Class I’d tell everyone to “Foxtrot Oscar” and “What You LOOKIN at” and if I were Upper Class – well I wouldn’t speak to you anyway, or if I deigned, I might raise an eyebrow in askance.

I think being Middle Class is very confusing as you vacillate between being very proud for being so and worrying what others may think of you.

There’s a lot of guilt being Middle Class.

In fact there are 9.63 million Google hits about it and I think that is a lot.

Secretly though it’s not so much guilt as fear; fear of being laughed and derided by the Upper Classes or else beaten up by the lower orders and having everything taken away.

Thus you land up trying very hard to be invisible by seamlessly blending in to one and frantically claiming solidarity with the other. One requires expensive shopping trips and claiming that you know who won this year at Burghley and that yes you do know your chukka from your bump; and the other renders you incomprehensible to English speaking nations as you reclaim your Working Class roots (Class now pronounced as in ass) along with dropping you aitches and hastily adopting a mockney accent even though your antecedents hailed from Wales.

So it is with a great deal of trepidation and frantic crossing of fingers that I promise to speak with my own voice – possibly for the very first time in my life.

And I won’t be apologising…well, not all the time!

Depression: I Love Ruby Wax but I'm keeping it secret...

Oh I loved Ruby Wax talking about her depression at BritMumsLive! It was funny, heart-breaking and way too close to the bone.

She said stand-up, be counted, but..oh yes there’s a but; she’s been filming people who do just that, who stand up and say they have a mental health problem in the workplace and guess what she’s having a hard time getting people to say a word.

I know that one so well…

In 1995 I was in a great job, I loved my job then one day I came in crying. I had broken up with my boyfriend and I stupidly let slip that I was on medication for depression. The fact is throughout my employment at that particular firm I had been on Prozac seems to have completely passed my employers by.

I mean only the week previously they had been talking about bonuses for the team which definitely included me. I was the account manager. I did the job standing on my head and still had time to juggle clinical depression, training for a North Pole expedition and balancing my bank account against my prediliction for Bond Street shops.

I’m a multi tasker - what can I say…

But within 24 hours I was asked to leave. Nothing was said as such about the D.E.P.R.E.S.S.I.O.N and I was too shell shocked and emotional to do anything about it at first. It was all done so very, very, nicely. I was given help to find a new job which they paid for and then I was let go. I think they told everyone that I was leaving voluntarily. As far as they were concerned they did everything right and proper. I suppose my problem was that I thought so too, that is until I took a long hard look at the legacy I was left with.

The feeling of tawdriness, uselessness, the feeling that I had done something wrong, that I was bad at my job, that I could never ever say a word about depression and my role in it to anyone. I had been gagged even before I had ever opened my mouth and suddenly it felt so fucking wrong!

And then I fought back.

I fought back like a vicious trapped weasel baring my teeth in a most unladylike manner. I went for them like something possessed but it pretty soon petered out, I am pretty ineffectual and a coward so even though I told my Union all about it we never fought about the dismissal in terms of them chucking me out because they had heard about my mental health issues, it was merely implied. I got £4K to shut up and got another job. The company I worked for have gone onto greater things in that dark and murky world of politcal lobbying. Bish Bosh over and done nobody the wiser and nobody hurt.

I have NEVER made the same mistake again. Paranoid, I was ever after that, about mentioning mental health issues in the workplace. Kept it quiet. That is until I finally started my polar adventures then I spoke up, big piece in The Times, stupid idea… but that’s another story for another day…

Check out Ruby Wax’s Black Dog Tribe….

BritMumsLive 2012 - I did but dream......

Methinks I did but dream it.
But there is evidence to the contrary still strewn around my boudoir, waiting to be put away, sorted, dealt with, filed.
As I get back to the nitty gritty of daily life I catch myself smiling as little bits of the weekend flash past in the blink of an eye. Narrow and fat, hair, key and fill I am itching to get my camera out, looking to see if I can make it work. And my mind begins to wander instead of concentratingopn the matter at hand.
I imagine beautiful still lives a la the Dutch masters on great canvasses swamping my kitchen walls, being repinned on pintrest, admired and sought after. I could do it!
Then of course I'll hit upon a great blog theme, self host it and it will be brilliantly designed by my fair self. It will be promoted on Google Plus and Facebook, my twitter followers will be legion. I could do it!
I will become a guru and be invited to talk at BritMumsLive 2013. Oh how modest I'll be...oh complete bollocks....
Reality Check!
I've got laundry to do oodles of it because I've been away and no one else thought to even start the machine let alone get the dirty laundry downstairs. The house needs a great big fug out, a bit of spit and polish to bring it up to standard. It didn't get done while I was away and now I am back it becomes terribly noticeable. The weeds in my garden are actually threatening to start encroaching inside so bold they are and there is only one thing for it, I'll have to get out there and get a grip. The end of term is fast approaching and the boys have cricket matches, concerts and sports days all of which demand my undivided attention; that and trying to round up all their lost school uniform before the school is shut for the summer. Oh yes the summer, holidays and me in charge not just seven days a week but 24 hours a day as well as...
Is it no wonder that I think perchance I dreamt it all?

Conference dilemmas

So BritMumsLive! Conference tickets booked, train tickets booked, hotel  room reserved. Why, oh why, then, if I am that organised - and believe you me that is organised for me - can I not get my head round packing for this shindig?

The big problem is: What to Wear! Technically as long as I have suit, clean undies and a toothbrush I should be just fine but it’s not that kind of conference.

It’s one where there will be lots of other women. If it had been a normal workaday conference I wouldn’t give two hoots but because it is a conference where most, if not all, the delegates are female I am in a flat spin.

I want to be seen as smart and savvy but not off puttee and grand. I want to be approachable and affable and non-threatening but I want to swagger and show off too. I want to be noticed but not too much. I don’t want to be considered dowdy nor do I want to be mutton dressed up as lamb.

Heels or flats?

Shoes or boots?

Jeans or suits?

Mummy or business woman?

Do I need stuff for going out? Will I get that lucky and hook up with people who want to hang out with me and therefore give me a chance to go out in the first place or will I be Milly No Mates and land up eating a packed supper alone in my hotel room?

Will I be brave or scared rigid?

Will I do a runner when faced with a vast throng?

Will I plunge in regardless and fall flat on my face with a case of foot in mouth – I am so good at that game!

Or will I just wing it, along with my wardrobe …

Wave I’m the one getting it disastrously wrong!