How to Pretend You're Posh (And Fool Absolutely No One)

Here I am, an individual of impeccable taste, navigating the world of fine living. You must forgive me, I've just had the most dreadful time trying to find a decent vintage this morning. It's like, I say to the chap at the wine shop, "Do you really expect me to drink anything from after 2015?" And, you know, he gives me this look. You know the look—the kind that suggests he thinks I'm just a bit too posh for my own good. But honestly, anything after 2015 is basically grape juice, isn't it?

Ah, but don't misunderstand me, I am terribly refined these days. I’ve got a subscription to the London Review of Books, which I only read while sipping a perfectly brewed Earl Grey, naturally. I’ve even started calling dinner 'supper' just because it feels right, you know? I mean, it's really quite marvellous, isn't it? 'Supper' has that special ring to it. It’s a bit like 'dinner', but with that certain je ne sais quoi, which in this case means the added air of someone who has, perhaps, a favourite type of chutney—oh, and not just any chutney, mind you, but something exotic like mango and chilli, or fig and balsamic reduction. And of course, one must always discuss these chutneys with others, ideally while wearing a cashmere cardigan and standing next to an Aga, because how else would you truly embrace the spirit of 'supper'?

Speaking of chutney, I must tell you about the cheese board I hosted the other day. Oh, yes, yes, I’m a bit of a cheese board enthusiast these days. I laid out a lovely spread, something artisanal, nothing you'd find in Tesco—absolutely not! I had this Camembert which was—and I do say this with utmost confidence—ever so slightly off. Yes, off. Which is how you know it’s good, isn’t it? If it’s sort of offensive to the nose, that’s when you know you’re on the right track. And, of course, I also included a Brie that was so gooey, it was more of a puddle than a cheese—it practically had to be served with a ladle. Oh, and the crackers! I had a selection that would make any self-respecting cheese lover weep with joy: charcoal crackers, rosemary wafers, and even some gluten-free, hand-rolled, sea salt thins. Because, let’s face it, if you’re not offering a variety of crackers that require an explanation, are you really even hosting a cheese board?

Now, when it comes to weekends, you'll find me spending my time at the local farmer's market—oh, yes, very locally sourced, organic vibes only. It’s very important, you know, to support local farmers, even if it means spending fifteen quid on a cabbage. And it's never just 'cabbage,' is it? I only deal in cabbages that have names like 'heritage winter brassica' and come with a story about how they were grown on the side of some misty hill by a person named Juniper. Juniper, who probably wears handmade sandals and sings folk songs to the vegetables as they grow.

Of course, I’ve also taken up reading poetry. Not just any poetry, mind you. I’ve been diving into Keats, which I must say, is quite different from the last thing I saw the neighbour read, which was… well… let’s just say it was a Jilly Cooper novel and leave it at that. But no, now I sit in my front room—parlour, I should say—with a cup of Earl Grey, reading my Keats aloud, so the neighbours know just how terribly cultured I’ve become. I’m sure they’re impressed, even if they don’t fully understand why I’m standing at the window declaring, "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever!" at the top of my lungs.

Anyway, I must be off—I've got a yoga class to get to. Not the regular kind, of course—oh, no. It's goat yoga. Yes, goats. Someone told me it’s very calming to have a goat jump on your back while you’re doing a downward dog. I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but it sounds expensive and obscure, which means it must be good for me. Plus, there’s something rather poetic, don’t you think, about reconnecting with nature, even if nature is standing on you and chewing on your shoelaces.