There was always a proportion of the British working class who made very good money. But they made it by arduous work which left them with calloused hands and weatherbeaten faces, and their greasy working clothes were the mark of inferior status.
But the young man of today whose work is as undemanding physically as it is mentally slips on his jacket at the end of his shift and is indistinguishable from a bank clerk. To his grandfather the status symbols of the middle class were as unattainable as the status symbols of the aristocracy, and they were therefore not always in his mind. But the grandson, with his car, his natty attire and his Continental holiday tan, is acutely and continuously aware of class, for he is busily engaged in promoting himself. He is also aware of his remaining handicaps. It is easier to buy a posh suit than a posh accent, and he knows very well that his own accent would win him no rush of friends in a suburban tennis club. Whenever he mixes socially with the traditional middle class, he finds himself in a mine-field of speech conventions. He gives himself away by what the middle class regard as pseudo-refinements. He says “Pleased to meet you” instead of mumbling “How d’ye do,” “serviette” instead of “napkin.” Because he is aware of the traps of speech and the niceties of social behavior, he feels insecure away from his own kind.
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