I've got a soft spot for aristocracy. Not that I have anything genetically in common, so to speak, with them (I come from a mixture of peasant and artisan stock*), but because they're the class that takes the least explaining to. A few recent situations have made me think though: maybe after all? And it's not the fact that I instinctively want to sit on any council that runs whatever the local political entity happens to be. There's something more telling.
And don't get me wrong: although it may seem so, I'm not ideologically against tidying up, mopping, vacuum-cleaning or ironing. Sometimes I don't even mind doing an odd bit of one of them myself (but not more than one and not too often - is that clear?), if I will so.
However, something strange and powerful - as if genetically programmed - happens to me when someone tells me to have anything with to do with cloths, sponges, detergents or brushes. My immediate and spontaneous reaction is an almost physical pain and reaching to where normally my sword would be. Then, restrained by the values and norms that my ancestors have imbued me with - and by lack of the sword - I calm down and want to call for my men and order them to deal summarily with the impudent knave; or clean the place themselves.
So maybe I need to go and find in the attic - or wherever aristocracy keep them - that long-forgotten crest and dust it off ? (not myself, of course...)
*A faint echo of a noble connection rings somewhere in the family, but then in Poland that's quite common.
PS The problem is my men are never there when I need them...
