The Stiff Upper Lip
By Ruth Maxwell
This chair is too low for me. And it is a hideous colour. Well, the whole room – with a shudder I use the name it is called here – the Lounge - is hideous. Such a clash of patterns and texture, ghastly pictures on the walls – reproductions, naturally. Thoroughly tasteless. You ask me what on earth I am doing here? I often wonder that myself. Leaving my beautiful home, where harmony prevailed, where everything was in exquisite taste. A succession of Mrs. Mops to keep it clean, a gardener to attend to the grounds. Two cars outside, my husband’s Bentley, my dear little Mini. Neatness. Orderliness. Calm. All in the past.
I am now in Sheltered Accommodation, as my dear children decided I needed more care. I do think, between ourselves, they were a bit hasty, selling the family home, but there we are. The other residents here are mostly elderly ladies like myself. We all share a dislike of the young people of today. The way they dress, it is unbelievable. So vulgar. And their complete lack of manners. In my youth, things were very different. The Working Classes knew their places, showed us deference and respect. Children were seen and not heard. Nowadays – well, even my grandchildren have their own Television in their bedrooms, so they can watch these ghastly quite unsuitable programmes. With no adult supervision at all. I’ve even seen Charlotte, she is 10, carrying her dinner upstairs so she can eat and watch, and not miss a single word.
Meals were very much a family occasion when I was a girl. We even used to have a themed topic of conversation, and we all had to contribute. How sarcastic my father could be, reducing us to size if we dared outstep the mark. And no leaving food on our plates, we were constantly reminded of the Poor Children in China. Ah. Those were the days. And I mean, look at our Government! Hardly a Gentleman amongst them. Dear Anthony Eden! We even tolerated Winston Churchill – his wife was so charming – and he WAS a brilliant orator.
Oh, one on my fellow residents has just come in. Not one my favourites. I once asked her which School she had attended. And you know, she looked me firmly in the eye, and replied “Borstal.” Well, I mean to say… I imagine it was meant to be humorous, but really. No, she’s not quite a lady. Thinking of which, I’ll just slip off now to my own flat. I have this week’s copy of “The Lady” to read – such a charming periodical. Where’s my handbag? I’ll just check my purse is still inside…. Borstal indeed….You can never be too careful.