All this talk about the middle class has led me to muse on
the social phenomenon known as the bourgeoisie. Those of us outside the bourgeois
circle are supposed to revile them – for their superiority complexes if you’re
a peasant, and for their aspirational pretensions if you’re a toff.
I don’t. I recognise that peasant and potentate each know
their place, even if we disagree with it. The poor old bourgeoisie walk an
insecure line, and I find insecurity an endearing trait. What must it be like
to be attacked by the great unwashed every time there’s a rebellion, and not be
invited to the hunt ball in more peaceable times? You have to feel sorry for
them, don’t you?
Some of them are even quite nice people. There are plenty of
bourgeois types where I live, and some of them are quite nice, so I should
know.
* * *
Nothing interesting happened in Ashbourne today. Sorry. The
routine Wednesday shopping trip was as limp as a camp vicar’s handshake. Talking of whom, I was in his charity shop today and saw him sell somebody something. She
said ‘thank you’ and he said ‘you’re welcome.’ How did that happen?
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