Split-personality complex

Dear Mum,

Unless its’ someone I respect or care about, I couldn’t give a toss what people think about me. What I wear, who I’m friends with, why I can’t stand the Twilight films; those who object can go on their merry way.

There is, however, one part of my identity that I do cringe at. My middle class alter ego.

She is named Lucinda.

This dual identity complex was arguably inevitable.  Coming from a leafy Kentish town, where country walks in Hunter wellies and quilted jackets is a common pastime. Where families call dinner ‘supper’ and employ a cleaner, even though mother will do a quick whip round before the cleaner arrives because she cannot bear the thought of the cleaner judging her for a messy abode.

Before university, I wasn’t ever conscious of Lucinda’s voice.  When I was immersed in the huge and diverse community of a university campus, Lucinda’s expression was palpably conspicuous.

On one such occasion I was at a friend’s watching a film.  One girl, a raving Tory, was wearing a part of velvet slippers adorned with a shiny ribbon.

“I love your slippers,” I said, “where are they from?”

“Boden,” she replied pointing her toes.

“E-ow My God, I LOVE Boden!” I cried as I clasped my hands together and clutched them to my chest. Lucinda had materialised and the others in the room gawped at her in horror.

This statement was typical of those women who shop in M&S food halls with a wicker basket hung in the crook of their elbow. The same women who visit the local independent cafe to flirt with the Italian manager and exclaim, “Oh, Giuseppe, do say you’re attending my dinner party on Saturday, I can’t wait for you to try my homemade pesto.”

I roll my eyes at the sight or sound of these individuals. But Lucinda lurks in the Cath Kidston papered corners of my mind, waiting to exercise her middle class voice like these local homemakers.

I have come to terms with the fact that Lucinda is a part of my constitution. I am conscious of her existence but am prepared to both suppress and embrace her.

Once, when I was revising for my finals and went for a break in the library cafe, I bumped into a guy I went to secondary school with. He was once a shy, nervous boy who cried, utterly mortified, when he accidently walked into the girls’ toilets.  

Today, we couldn’t be more different.

There he was, on his way for a nicotine fix, the cigarette tucked behind his ear, clearly whispering enticing encouragement. Since school he has had an ear pierced and his trousers have lowered a further three inches down his backside.

He also follows this popular youth fashion of having a spare white t-shirt dangling from his back pocket. Fair do’s, he’s prepared for a grubby t-shirt emergency, but why it can’t be folded and placed in his bag, I don’t understand.

There I was, fulfilling the archetypal image of a middle class female student - a pashmina arranged extravagantly around my neck, a cafe latte in one hand and a copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ balancing on my knee. “So good to see you,” I smiled as he quickly jerked his head upward in my direction and swaggered outside.

Not sure whether this was Lucinda or Lucy, I must confess I was glad to be either one. I knew he was probably thinking something similar to my attitudes about those pesto and wicker basket women.

“Jog on,” was forefront in my mind.