The trials and tribulations of the upper middle class...
“What’s your story? And I don’t mean what you do, that’s your vocation. I mean, what’s your story?” Emma Elizabeth Marshall Stewart fixed a slightly bleary eye on the unfortunate male sitting in front of her. One hand was clutching her glass of Bombay, the other was obsessively tapping at the casing of her iPhone as she leaned forward, determined to wrangle something exciting from the stranger. From the very first glimpse of his slicked-back pony-tail, and his moist fat lips, she had decided that he was entirely unworthy of her, and something within her had a crushing desire to make this known to all.
Unwittingly, he took the bait.
“Well, I got kicked out of home….I’m gay….” Emma nodded, for all intents and purposes, sympathetic to his plight. He continued - “well, my mum’s not happy that I’m gay, so I can’t go back, and I have nowhere to live, no money, I’ve been kind of on the streets…and then I met Harry at the pub…”
“Oh deary me, that’s dreadful.” Emma interrupted. He was talking far too slowly, and she was tiring of him. “But you know, that’s terrible and all, but living an upper middle class existence is also terribly taxing, you have no idea.”
“Oh, it’s difficult is it?” Emma narrowed her eyes at him, and took a large gulp of her gin, little finger extended.
“Yes, it most certainly is. You know, today, I had to choose which pair of vintage Chanel clip-on earrings to buy. It was a terribly difficult situation…” Once again motivated to finish this conversation, now that the lime-light had passed to her, she proceeded to show the poor homeless man eight pairs of the aforementioned earrings on her iPhone.
A little while later, whilst the homeless man was sitting inside making a general nuisance of himself, Emma was explaining to her good friends her theory of pre-emptive incarceration. Perhaps it was the bottle of Bombay, or those bottles of Moet before, but her screeches drew the man back into the garden.
“NO! You don’t understand, everybody should have their brains scanned, and if they show predictors of criminality, then they should be incarcerated to prevent the anti-social behaviour which they will most probably exhibit in the future…” The man, thinking they had bonded during the earlier encounter, approached her.
“You know what I think…” he began, wet lips smacking as he spoke, “I think that…”
But Emma wasn’t having a bar of that. She turned to him, and paused, ever so slightly before saying bluntly, “I don’t know you, and I don’t like you, so go away.” She turned back and continued her diatribe. He was however, persistent. Emma sighed, and turned to him again. “Look, I’ve already told you that I hate you, but do I have to explain it any further - you are stupid, and you have no University education whatsoever, and are therefore utterly unqualified to discuss this with us.” She shook her head, and once again, turned her back on him.
The homeless man wandered back inside, unphased. It was testament to his character, perhaps, that he was still there after the abuse which was being hurled at him by the girl with the glass of Gin.
Emma, however, realised that she had left her Marc Jacobs bag in the sitting room, and, looking around the table, was horrified that it was alone in there with that man. Showing a regard for the bag which she rarely showed for her fellow mankind, she rushed inside and saw its ostentatious gold print glowing from the sofa where the man was lying. Marching up to him, shuddering slightly as she watched him smile and take the headphones from his ears to rest on his chubby neck, she grabbed the bag, gave him a distinctly pointed look and marched back outside. One can never tell what these desperate plebs might do, she thought to herself, munching on a piece of salted caramel tart as she passed through the kitchen.
A few gins and a Brandy Alexander later, Emma decided that she was Queen Victoria. She also decided that her various friends were her colonies, the gems in her empire: British India, Ceylon, Burma, Rhodesia…
The homeless man, however, was Portugal, and it is a well-known fact that Portugal has no place in Queen Victoria’s realm.
She called upon her mighty navy, but it failed her. She called upon the plantation owners, and the British East India Company, but they failed her. So Queen Victoria put on her riding helmet, and, armed with an umbrella, she decided to take matters into her own, far more capable hands.
She approached Portugal, who was standing in a corner, lost and confused. She took him by the shoulder, cringing at the touch of his dirty, synthetic shirt under her fingers. And then, with an air of great ceremony, Queen Victoria marched Portugal down the corridor, and opened the front door. She looked him in the eye, and stated loudly and imperiously - “Portugal, you are now being expelled from the waters of the British Empire. You don’t belong here. Goodbye.” With a rather un-ladylike shove, she pushed Portugal’s greasy mass through the front door and slammed it in his face.
The homeless man was left on the doorstep, and Emma Elizabeth Marshall Stewart, satisfied after a job well done, took her iPhone out of the Marc Jacobs bag, because she had finally decided which vintage Chanel clip-on earrings she wanted to buy.
Unwittingly, he took the bait.
“Well, I got kicked out of home….I’m gay….” Emma nodded, for all intents and purposes, sympathetic to his plight. He continued - “well, my mum’s not happy that I’m gay, so I can’t go back, and I have nowhere to live, no money, I’ve been kind of on the streets…and then I met Harry at the pub…”
“Oh deary me, that’s dreadful.” Emma interrupted. He was talking far too slowly, and she was tiring of him. “But you know, that’s terrible and all, but living an upper middle class existence is also terribly taxing, you have no idea.”
“Oh, it’s difficult is it?” Emma narrowed her eyes at him, and took a large gulp of her gin, little finger extended.
“Yes, it most certainly is. You know, today, I had to choose which pair of vintage Chanel clip-on earrings to buy. It was a terribly difficult situation…” Once again motivated to finish this conversation, now that the lime-light had passed to her, she proceeded to show the poor homeless man eight pairs of the aforementioned earrings on her iPhone.
A little while later, whilst the homeless man was sitting inside making a general nuisance of himself, Emma was explaining to her good friends her theory of pre-emptive incarceration. Perhaps it was the bottle of Bombay, or those bottles of Moet before, but her screeches drew the man back into the garden.
“NO! You don’t understand, everybody should have their brains scanned, and if they show predictors of criminality, then they should be incarcerated to prevent the anti-social behaviour which they will most probably exhibit in the future…” The man, thinking they had bonded during the earlier encounter, approached her.
“You know what I think…” he began, wet lips smacking as he spoke, “I think that…”
But Emma wasn’t having a bar of that. She turned to him, and paused, ever so slightly before saying bluntly, “I don’t know you, and I don’t like you, so go away.” She turned back and continued her diatribe. He was however, persistent. Emma sighed, and turned to him again. “Look, I’ve already told you that I hate you, but do I have to explain it any further - you are stupid, and you have no University education whatsoever, and are therefore utterly unqualified to discuss this with us.” She shook her head, and once again, turned her back on him.
The homeless man wandered back inside, unphased. It was testament to his character, perhaps, that he was still there after the abuse which was being hurled at him by the girl with the glass of Gin.
Emma, however, realised that she had left her Marc Jacobs bag in the sitting room, and, looking around the table, was horrified that it was alone in there with that man. Showing a regard for the bag which she rarely showed for her fellow mankind, she rushed inside and saw its ostentatious gold print glowing from the sofa where the man was lying. Marching up to him, shuddering slightly as she watched him smile and take the headphones from his ears to rest on his chubby neck, she grabbed the bag, gave him a distinctly pointed look and marched back outside. One can never tell what these desperate plebs might do, she thought to herself, munching on a piece of salted caramel tart as she passed through the kitchen.
A few gins and a Brandy Alexander later, Emma decided that she was Queen Victoria. She also decided that her various friends were her colonies, the gems in her empire: British India, Ceylon, Burma, Rhodesia…
The homeless man, however, was Portugal, and it is a well-known fact that Portugal has no place in Queen Victoria’s realm.
She called upon her mighty navy, but it failed her. She called upon the plantation owners, and the British East India Company, but they failed her. So Queen Victoria put on her riding helmet, and, armed with an umbrella, she decided to take matters into her own, far more capable hands.
She approached Portugal, who was standing in a corner, lost and confused. She took him by the shoulder, cringing at the touch of his dirty, synthetic shirt under her fingers. And then, with an air of great ceremony, Queen Victoria marched Portugal down the corridor, and opened the front door. She looked him in the eye, and stated loudly and imperiously - “Portugal, you are now being expelled from the waters of the British Empire. You don’t belong here. Goodbye.” With a rather un-ladylike shove, she pushed Portugal’s greasy mass through the front door and slammed it in his face.
The homeless man was left on the doorstep, and Emma Elizabeth Marshall Stewart, satisfied after a job well done, took her iPhone out of the Marc Jacobs bag, because she had finally decided which vintage Chanel clip-on earrings she wanted to buy.