A brush with privilege

The other day, I wrote about the Prince Andrew interview and joked that an elderly Dame with a man’s name would leap to his defence and say that these grls (they don’t pronounce their vowels) only have themselves to blame. I was joking, not having seen Lady Colin Campbell’s outrageous interview, but my joke was based on a brief brush with privilege.

 I had met rich people at University: mainly public schoolboys that were a huge disappointment to their families but this was a whole other level

In my early twenties I took a research job with an Australian social psychologist. He was an absolutely lovely man and an expert on questionnaire design. It was a great job and also a glimpse into another world.
 He had been one of the first social psychologists at the LSE and pretty much designed all those courses in the UK. His wife was a member of the aristocracy (I think). She spent her life doing good work and rubbed shoulders with actual Princesses. His eldest daughter was one of the few female barristers and was dating a very famous novelist. His son was a bit of a playboy and was dating our office assistant. Our office was close to his home: a mansion flat overlooking one of the parks and he treated us like part of his family.

Once, when I had a migraine, he sent me home to his wife because he was worried about my long commute. She popped me on the sofa with a blanket to let me sleep it off, which was lovely but it was a shock to wake up in the middle of tea with Princess Michael of Kent.

It was more common that his children would join us for a lunchtime drink in the pub over the road. Elsie, the secretary was furious about the way playboy son spoke about his girlfriend. He introduced her to his friend as his Pa’s Goffah, “She goes for this, she goes for that and boy does she go!” he said nudging his pal in the ribs and winking. I didn’t really understand at the time just how little respect he was showing for her.

The mate was a distant member of the royal family. He bragged that his mother was Dame Brian Something or Other. The other research assistant kept her composure, catching my eye in warning but it was too late. I snorted my Bacardi and coke across the table.
“Brian? Brian? What kind of name is that for a woman? Is she a very naughty boy?”