Watching the English

by Kate Fox

  The Eccentricity Clause

  Which brings me to a further complicating factor: taste is often judged, in social terms, not by the deed but by the doer. If someone is securely established as a member of a particular class, his or her house may feature a number of exceptions to the rules I have mentioned without any danger of reclassification downwards or upwards. I read somewhere that Princess Anne’s house, Gatcombe Park, is cluttered with displays of every gift she has ever received, including the sort of tacky national dolls and cheap African carvings normally only found in working-class ‘front rooms’. Such signs of plebeian tastes among the upper classes or even long-established upper-middles are generally regarded as harmless eccentricities.

  And it works the other way round as well. I had a friend of impeccable working-class credentials – a school cleaner, living on a run-down council estate – who had a passion for the upper-class equestrian sport of eventing (also known as horse trials, and also, incidentally, favoured by Princess Anne). She kept a horse (free in return for mucking-out) at a nearby riding school, and her council-house kitchen was festooned with rosettes and photographs of herself competing in local hunter trials and one-day events. Her working-class friends and neighbours accepted her ‘posh’ horsey doings and decorations as an innocuous quirk, a somewhat eccentric hobby that in no way affected her status as their social equal.

  This ‘eccentricity clause’ seems to be most reliably effective at the top and bottom ends of the social scale. The middle-middle, lower-middle, upper-working and even upper-middle zones are more vulnerable to reclassification on the grounds of perceived deviation from the class norm. Here, a single lapse in home-decorating taste may be forgiven or disregarded, but two or more could be damaging. Even among the less vulnerable, it is safest to choose your eccentricity from a class at the opposite end of the scale, rather than from the one immediately adjacent to your own. An upper-middle showing evidence of middle-middle tastes, for example, is much more likely to be suspected and downgraded than an upper-middle with a penchant for an unmistakably proletarian item of furniture or decoration.

  In borderline cases, well-intentioned gifts can pose a problem for the class-conscious English. I was once given some very pretty wooden coasters, and not having any tables worth protecting from drink-stains – nor, I must admit, wishing to be suspected of the bourgeois instinct to do so – I use them to prop open my dodgy windows. I could get the broken sashes mended instead, of course, but then what would I do with the coasters? Being English can be quite tricky sometimes.

  HOUSE-TALK RULES

  Whatever your social class, there are rules governing not only what you must do when you move into a house, but also how you should talk about it – or, rather, to be more precise, how you should moan about it.

  The ‘Nightmare’ Rule

  When talking about your house-move, it must always be described as traumatic, fraught with difficulty and disruption, even if the process was completed smoothly and without noticeable stress. This rule applies to the initial house-hunting, the purchase of the house, the move itself, any DIY undertaken upon moving in, and ‘having the builders in’: it is universally understood that all of these are ‘a nightmare’. To describe them in any more favourable or even neutral terms would be regarded as odd, possibly even as arrogant – as somehow implying that you are immune to the stresses and upsets afflicting all normal house-buyers.

  There is a modesty rule implied here as well. The more grand or desirable your new residence, the more you must emphasise the troubles, inconveniences and ‘nightmares’ involved in its acquisition and improvement. One does not boast about one’s purchase of a beautiful Cotswold cottage or even a château in France: one moans about the awfulness of the estate agents, the carelessness of the removal men, the obtuseness of the local builders or the dire state of the plumbing, roof, floors or garden.

  Done well, with just the right air of long-suffering humour, this kind of English moaning can be remarkably convincing, and highly effective in deflecting envy. I have found myself sympathising – genuinely sympathising – with the beleaguered new owners of just such bijou cottages and grand châteaux. Even if you are not convinced, and indeed even if you are boiling with envy, resentment or righteous indignation, the correct response is to express sympathy: ‘How infuriating!’ ‘You must be exhausted!’ ‘What a nightmare!’

  At one level, this ritual moaning is, of course, an indirect boast – an excuse to talk about one’s new property and convey its attractions without appearing to crow. At the same time, however, it can also be seen as another manifestation of English ‘polite egalitarianism’, a less invidious form of hypocrisy. The moaners, by emphasising the mundane practical details and difficulties of home-buying or moving, are focusing on problems they and their listeners have in common, matters with which we can all identify, and politely deflecting attention from any potentially embarrassing disparity in wealth or status. I could sympathise with my château-buying friends because their laments centred on the only element of their situation that could be compared with my own humble removals from one cheap flat to another. But this practice is observed by all classes, and in circumstances of much less dramatic income-disparity. Only the most vulgar nouveaux-riches break the rule and tell house-move stories that blatantly advertise their superior wealth.

  Money-talk Rules

  Similar modesty rules apply to the discussion of house prices, compounded by the usual English squeamishness about money-talk. Although conversations about house prices have become a staple at middle-class dinner parties, they are conducted in accordance with a delicate etiquette. It is absolutely forbidden to ask directly what someone paid for their house (or indeed any item in it): this is almost as unforgivably rude as asking them what they earn.

  In the interests of science, I deliberately broke this rule a few times. Well, to be honest, I only really did it twice. My first attempt doesn’t count, as I hedged my price-enquiry about with so many anxious apologies and qualifiers and excuses (such as a fictitious friend thinking of buying a house in the area) that it could not possibly be considered a direct question. Even so, the experience was not wasted, as the reactions of my unwitting lab-rats indicated that my apologies and excuses were not seen as at all excessive or out of place.

  On the two occasions when I managed to steel myself, take a deep breath and ask the house-price question properly (or, rather, improperly), the lab-rats responded with predictable embarrassment. They answered my question, but in an awkward, uncomfortable manner: one forced himself to mutter an approximate price, then hastily changed the subject; the other, a female, laughed nervously and replied with her hand half covering her mouth, while her other guests looked sideways at me, coughed uneasily and exchanged raised-eyebrow glances across the table. Yes, all right: raised eyebrows and a bit of embarrassed throat-clearing are probably the worst that can happen to you when you commit breaches of English dinner-party etiquette, so my experiments might not sound particularly heroic. Maybe you have to be English to know just how wounding those eyebrows and coughs can be.

  The house-talk rules also state that it is not done to introduce the price paid for your own house into the conversation without good cause and suitable preamble. The price of your house can only be mentioned ‘in context’, and even then only if this can somehow be done in a self-deprecating manner, or at least in such a way as to make it clear that you are not engaging in an ostentatious display of wealth. You can mention the price of your house, for example, if you bought it many years ago, for what now seems a ludicrously low sum.

  The current value of your house, for some unfathomable reason, is a different matter, and may be the subject of endless discussion and speculation – although high property prices, including the estimated value of your own property, must always be described as ‘silly’, ‘crazy’, ‘absurd’ or ‘outrageous’. This perhaps gives us a clue as to why value can be discussed while price cannot: it seems that the current value of
a house is regarded as a matter entirely outside our control, rather like the weather, while the price actually paid for a house is a clear indicator of a person’s financial status.

  In times of economic recession, when house prices are falling, these conversations are actually rather more comfortable for the English, as moaning about the considerably reduced value of one’s home is so much easier than trying to disguise one’s pride in its absurdly inflated value. In general, however, excessive talk about house prices is a class-indicator: if you indulge in too much moaning or speculation about house prices, you may be categorised as a petit-bourgeois reader of the Daily Mail (a tabloid newspaper that is much ridiculed for its burning obsession with house prices).

  Improvement-talk Rules

  Whatever your class or financial status, and whatever the value of the house you are moving into, it is customary to disparage the taste of the previous occupant. If you do not have the time, skill or funds necessary to rip out all evidence of the former owner’s bad taste, you must, when showing friends around your new house, sigh deeply, roll your eyes or grimace and say, ‘Well, it’s not what we would have chosen, obviously, but we’ll just have to live with it for the moment,’ or, more succinctly, ‘We haven’t done this room yet.’ This will also save your guests from the dire embarrassment of complimenting you on a room that has not been ‘done’, then having to backtrack with awkward face-savers such as ‘Oh, of course, when I say “lovely” I mean the proportions, er, the view, um, er, I mean, it’s got such potential . . .’

  When showing visitors the results of your DIY efforts, or talking about your home-improvements at a party or in the pub, a strict modesty rule applies. Even if you are highly skilled, you must always play down your achievements and, if possible, play up your most embarrassing mistakes and blunders. The SIRC DIY-temple sample of nest-builders, and my own department-store and pub-eavesdropping samples, invariably followed this rule – sometimes even engaging in almost competitive self-deprecation, trying to cap each other’s amusing stories of disastrous incompetence. ‘I managed to burst three pipes just laying the carpet!’; ‘We bought an expensive carpet, but I ruined it by cutting it four inches short, so I had to build some bookcases to cover the gap’; ‘I somehow managed to put the sink in the wrong way round – and I’d done all the tiles before I noticed’; ‘You think that’s bad: it took me an hour and three cups of tea to put up a coat-hook board, and then I found I’d hung it upside-down!’; ‘So I painted over the dodgy bit and tried to pretend it was meant to look like that, but my girlfriend was, like, “You complete muppet!”’

  If your home has been ‘improved’ by professional builders, rather than your own DIY efforts, it is customary (as under the moving-nightmare rules above) to indulge in humorous moaning about their incompetence, laziness, etc. Unless the builders in question were Polish, in which case the current convention is to rhapsodise about how skilled, efficient, punctual and courteous they were – although this generally turns, by way of unpatriotic comparisons, into another moan about the ineptitude and indolence of home-grown builders. Revealing the price of your new kitchen or loft-conversion is only permitted in the context of nightmare-builders moaning – but even then, do be very careful: the English are well aware that money-related moans can often be disguised boasts. Asking about the cost of someone else’s improvements might just, but only just, be permissible if you first apologise for the nosiness and explain that you are considering having similar work done on your house and wondering what the going rate is.

  But there is no excuse, ever, for talking about the price of your furniture, curtains, rugs or any other possessions. Or for asking anyone else what they paid for theirs. This would cause considerably more embarrassment than talking about the price of your house or asking someone what their house cost them. As I mentioned above, the taboo on house-price talk is relaxed a bit when prices are falling, as such talk tends to be more anxious than boastful. But talk about the price of furnishings is only ever permitted among immediate family and very close friends, and even then can easily cause offence. The only exception would be if you had picked up the item in question for an astoundingly low bargain price – but it would have to be something like getting a beautiful antique table for two pounds at a car-boot sale to make the disclosure acceptable. An ordinary 50-percent-off type of bargain would certainly not justify breaking the money-talk taboo. Even if you did snag an incredible bargain, a brief, casual mention, sounding surprised at your good fortune, is more than enough. Best to throw in a ‘Couldn’t possibly afford something like this in a real antique shop, of course’, even if you could, but don’t bang on about the low price you paid and the real value of the item: this will be seen as either boasting about your bargain-hunting skills, or showing an unseemly obsession with money, both equally distasteful.

  Class Variations in House-talk Rules

  House-talk, like everything else in England, is also subject to class rules. Unless you have recently moved in and are ‘housewarming’, or happen to live in a particularly odd or unusual house (such as a converted lighthouse or church), it is considered rather lower-class to give visitors guided tours, or to invite them to inspect your new bathroom, kitchen extension, loft conversion or recently redecorated ‘front room’. Middle-middles and below are inclined to engage in such ritual displays – and may even invite friends round specifically to show off their new conservatory or kitchen – but among upper-middles and above, this is frowned upon. Among the highest echelons of English society, this affected lack of interest is required of visitors as well as hosts: it is considered incorrect to notice one’s surroundings when visiting someone at home, and paying compliments is regarded as decidedly ‘naff’, if not downright rude. A duke was said to have huffed in outrage, ‘Fellow praised my chairs, damned cheek!’ after a visit from a new neighbour.

  Some traces of this upper-class squeamishness about house-display have trickled down, at least to the middle classes: they may indulge in a bit of showing-off of conservatories and so on, but there are often hints of awkwardness or embarrassment. They will lead you to their new pride-and-joy kitchen, but will then attempt to appear dismissive, indifferent or jokey about it, making modest, self-effacing remarks (‘Well, we had to do something – it had got into such a state’), damning themselves with faint praise (‘At least it’s a bit brighter with the skylight’) or focusing on the inevitable difficulties (‘nightmares’) involved in the refurbishment (‘It was supposed to take a week, but we’ve had plaster and dust and total chaos in here for over a month’).

  Unlike the higher castes, however, these modest middles will not be offended by praise, although it is generally advisable to be vague rather than specific in your compliments. The English tend to be terribly touchy about their homes, and if you are too precise, there is always the danger of praising the wrong aspect of their latest improvement, or praising it in the wrong terms – calling a room ‘cosy’ or ‘cheerful’, say, when your hosts were aiming for an impression of stylish elegance. It is best to stick to generic expressions of approbation such as ‘lovely’ or ‘very nice’ unless you know the people well enough to be more explicit.

  The Awful Estate-agent Rule

  This extreme touchiness, evidence of the extent to which our identity is bound up with our homes, helps to explain the universal and apparently quite irrational English dislike of estate agents. You will rarely hear a good word spoken about estate agents in this country: even people who have never had any dealings with them invariably speak of them with contempt. There is a clear unwritten rule to the effect that estate agents must be constantly mocked, sneered at, censured and abused. They are on a par with traffic wardens and double-glazing salesmen – but while the offences of traffic wardens and salesmen are obvious, I found that no one could quite put a finger on exactly what estate agents do to deserve their vilification.

  When I asked people to account for their aversion to estate agents, the responses were vague, inconsis
tent and often contradictory: estate agents were ridiculed as stupid and incompetent ‘twits’, but also reviled as sly, grasping, cunning and deceitful. Finding it hard to see how estate agents could manage to be simultaneously dim-witted and deviously clever, I eventually gave up pressing for a rational explanation of their unpopularity, and tried instead to look for clues in the detailed mechanics of our interactions with them. What exactly do estate agents do? They come to inspect your house, look around it with an objective eye, put a value on it, advertise it, show people round it and try to sell it. What is so terribly offensive about that? Well, everything, if you replace the word ‘house’ with ‘identity’, ‘personality’, ‘social status’ or ‘taste’. Everything that estate agents do involves passing judgement not on some neutral piece of property but on us, on our lifestyle, our social position, our character, our private self. And sticking a price tag on it. No wonder we can’t stand them. By making them the butt of our jokes and scorn, we minimise their power to hurt our feelings: if estate agents are universally agreed to be stupid, ineffectual and insincere, their opinions and judgements become less meaningful, their intrusions into our private sphere less traumatic.

  GARDEN RULES

  From our helicopter at the beginning of this chapter we saw that the English all want to live in their own private box with their own private green bit. Indeed, it is our insistence on the private green bit that is, ironically, largely responsible for the desecration of the English countryside, with the construction of ‘invincible green suburbs’60 and all the environmental damage and pollution that they entail. The English simply will not live in flats or share courtyards like urban dwellers in other countries: we must have our private boxes and green bits.61