Snobbery and Shamelessness

If the truth be told, I think I’m a bit of a snob.
But before I go on, I’d better quickly google the actual definition of “snob”, just to be sure.

“…a person who believes there is a correlation between social status and human worth.”

Oh.
Snobs are aren’t very nice people.

On second thoughts, maybe I’m not actually a snob, but simply a person who is interested in other people’s positions in life, and how they got there.
Everyone has a story to tell.

I guess one thing that tells a lot about someone is the home they live in. How did they come to live there? What made them choose such a place? Is it, in fact, a choice, or an accident?

I’m fascinated by houses. Each one has a history – of the people that have lived and loved there. Died there, even. Except for new-builds. They don’t hold the same appeal. With them, it’s different. It’s all about what will happen. What stories might be weaved under their roof. That’s exciting in a different way.

I often wonder what the Four Little Seymours really make of their home. They know it’s a work-in-progress. They’re desperate for their own bedrooms but at least they currently enjoy our liberal rules regarding muddy shoes and wall art.
However, Little Seymour Number One has shown signs of being embarrassed on more than one occasion. Just before her eleventh birthday party, she was busying herself, putting all of the stuff in the kitchen away in drawers and cupboards. She was desperate to tidy the place, and I’m afraid I got a bit cross.
I mean, I’d already tidied it! It was as good as it was going to get. The floor was washed, and the table was clear. It really wasn’t going to help anyone if the credit card bill got lost, or if Big Seymour’s filing system on top of the cupboard was sent into disarray.
It was the first time I had seen her worry about what people thought of the way we lived.
The fact that she had a massive disco marquee in the garden, erected solely for her and her friends’ use, was irrelevant. The kitchen was obviously an embarrassment.
I have pondered over her behaviour a lot since that day. I’ve felt guilty that we moved from our “done” house, with its glorious granite island and soft-close doors in the kitchen, to this ugly little carbuncle of a dwelling.
I, too, am embarrassed by it at times.
I look around at the piles of bricks outside, and I notice some debris that could long since have been put in the bin. When I clean the bathroom, I don’t even attempt to wipe the mould off the ceiling. And as for the skirting boards? Let’s not go there.
If I worked harder at it, the Funny Little Bungalow could certainly look better. Clearing away all the clutter would definitely help matters. And avoiding jumble sales might be a good idea.
But here’s my point…
Despite my interest in people’s homes and lives, that’s not what I am most interested in. Those things are just accessories to that person. Accoutrements, shall we say.
When friends visit us here, they often laugh, and their eyes might give away their true sentiment, which is “I COULD NOT LIVE LIKE THIS IF YOU PAID ME A ZILLION POUNDS TWICE OVER”. But they still visit. And they are always polite. (Unless you count Moody Delivery Chap, who was distinctly unimpressed by having to walk a bit further to reach the back gate when he realised the front door was for display purposes only.)
The house is interesting – granted. But the people in it are what really count.

Shortly after Little Seymour Number One had tried to rearrange my kitchen that day, she visited a couple of friends who made her feel more “normal”. They, too, had lots of stuff and junk all over the place, but they weren’t as fortunate as the Four Little Seymours, in that they didn’t have big plans for renovation.

And so, when I choose not to wipe the skirting boards, and avoid looking at the mould, it’s not because I am a slattern. Oh no! I am simply revelling in the one advantage of the status quo – that being lackadaisical about the housework is currently allowed.
And as long as I remember not to judge others on their equally lackadaisical attitudes now and in the future (when I’m all posh), then why should anyone judge me?

The Four Little Seymours live in a world where the class system seems to have become rather muddled. Where we would fit into that system, I really couldn’t say. Sometimes, I feel rather grand and well-bred. And at other times, I remember that I’ve never met the Queen, and I haven’t been skiing.
Snobbery is such a subjective thing.

To go full circle from snob to slob (and back gain), I’m adopting the shameless approach. This is us! Mould and all. OK, it might help the overall look of the place if we could put the Christmas lights away – there’s nothing quite so sad as a string of multi-coloured bulbs dangling off a manky gutter in spring. But I mustn’t forget that we are the proud owners of now fully functional electric gates, and so at least our boneyard has a posh perimeter. (Oh, and a swimming pool.)

The Funny Little Bungalow really is a place of extremes, and hopefully, by living here, the Four Little Seymours will realise that people’s homes don’t define them. They just make them all the more interesting.