And yes, it was bloody awful, your smelly old aunty with her thick stockings and false teeth warbling on about the war and how you should chew your food three hundred times, but you didn't pack her off somewhere. Your brought her in, made the best of it. There was a thread to it, who you were, where you came from, who mattered in the world. Not just our street, the armpit of London, or working-class Liverpool or backstreet Glasgow. Your middle-class suburbs, they looked after their their own once. But then they started to have aspirations. It was them what started all this, what with their drinks and dinner parties, afraid of what people would find once they came throught the front door, Dad honking in the fireplace, Mum putting her foot in it with the wrong accent, the wrong word.