A well-dressed gentleman at the bar asked me what my line was, and expressed surprise when I turned out not to be a banker blowing my bonus. Shortly afterwards, a gaggle of Made-In-Chelsea types clustered around me, treating me as an object of mirth and curiosity. What was I doing there? Did I have any notion how far out of my social depth I was? I asked one of them how he would describe his own background. He said, “well, I am English”. I said “so am I - born in Bristol, grew up in Herefordshire. Isn’t that England? Aren’t I English?”. Apparently not in the required sense.
He said “my father is the something something lord something-or-other, and he has recently been negotiating the sale of warships to the Israeli government, smoothing out shipping treaties and things like that. Do you think that you could do something like that?”. I said that I thought I probably could not, because such transactions required a social credibility I did not possess - none of the players involved would have a clue who I was, and they would be disinclined to extend to me the trust and courtesy required for successful negotiation. He nodded condescendingly, as if I were a two-year-old who had just proudly stated that the sky was blue. I mentioned, rather feebly, that I had been to Oxford. “Did you know so-and-so? How about Lord whatsisname? Or Charlie thingammybob?”. No, none of those people. “Then in what sense were you actually there?”