Day 95. Are you a scouser or not?

Someone once asked me this question. With aggression, anger even, mainly because I don't speak with a broad Liverpudlian accent, don't wear trackies and trainers and say 'Calm down, calm down' at the end of every sentence and apparently earn too much money.

It's been a common theme throughout my life. Outside of Liverpool there's clearly a view that if you're from our great city you're either a thieving scally or an over-tanned, roller wearing trolley dolly. Well just like all Geordies don't say 'Why aye man!' with every breath and most Londoners can hold a conversation without shouting 'You Slaggggg!' the people of Liverpool are a diverse and varied race. True some do fit the stereotype but with almost half a million people living there, what do you expect?

This week the BBC launched The Great British Class Calculator and to my amusement (Mum and Dad look away now) I ended up in the Elite class. Ha! Sound proof that it doesn't work. A thought reinforced by a friend who said I'd obviously lied about my hobbies, after all "Once a scouser..."

Then today a friend from Uni posted this on Facebook:

"I thought that Radio 4 office was posh, but I've just overheard the Radio 3 team discussing the merits of pickled quails eggs and walnuts."

An idle comment about Waitrose selling pickled quails eggs and me not being posh prompted another friend to refer to my current location - a sushi restaurant in Cambridge - and it's true, today has been a rather middle class day. We have indeed eaten sushi including soft shell crab, but I must point out it was Yo Sushi! not Teri-Aki, we've shopped in John Lewis where they kindly provided B with her own pillar, visited the Apple Store, spent far too long in Millers Music browsing sheet music and discussing the merits of a Baby Grand versus an upright, picked up a few bits for tea from M&S, then bought some artisan olive bread and an over-priced tub of olives from Cambridge Market.

Looking back, to some, the question headlining this post may seem fair.

However when we got in we let Bea prepare a cold supper for us all. She served gherkins in a glass, tomatoes and salad in individual jugs, yep jugs, olives in a honey pot and hacked the bread into 3 pieces. Some food was presented in the appropriate bowls but for the main part it looked like the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. We ate it in front of the TV, plates on laps and for that reason alone surely any hopes of joining Club Posh have disappeared through our single glazed windows and headed back to Ryston Hall where they belong. Not that I'm hopeful of being posh in any way. Elite. Posh. Not for me. Truthfully I'd move back to Liverpool tomorrow if I could sort out work. It's not out of the question.

Pickled quails egg anyone? Now where did I put my rollers?