When I was an early teen, I went on holiday to Plettenberg Bay with my school friend, Greg Perkes. We stayed with his grandparents, who were the living embodiment of "posh"—all silver tea services, refined accents, and an atmosphere so polite you felt you needed a permit just to sneeze.
We were sitting in the lounge, balancing delicate china plates on our knees and exchanging pleasantries. My arm was hanging casually by the side of my chair when, suddenly, I felt something latch onto my forearm. It was followed by a very specific, very rhythmic sensation between my fingers.
One of the family’s prize poodles had decided I was the love of its life.
In any other house, someone would have shouted or shooed the dog away. But in this house, the commitment to "decorum" was absolute. Greg’s grandparents continued to discuss the weather and the tea with unwavering focus, staring directly ahead as if my arm wasn't currently being courted by a small, curly-haired romantic.
I was trapped. I didn't want to rip my arm away and shatter the fragile polite silence, so I just sat there—nodding, sipping tea, and trying to look "refined" while a dog made a very honest woman out of my left limb.
It took an eternity to delicately extricate myself without making a scene.
I went in expecting a lesson in high-society manners; I left realizing that "posh" is just a fancy word for being able to ignore a poodle’s mid-afternoon climax while asking if I’d like another lump of sugar.
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