After the double christening of two delightful tots I was sitting in a field in the rain, shivering, talking to their grandmother, who was bundled up in a dark blanket and a child’s spare black hoody. “Bit too grim reaper, am I?” she asked with a laugh. She was an impressive woman, very funny and very happy-seeming, without a bad word to say about anyone.

“When can I come and see your new band, the one you say I’ll hate?” she teased her older grandson cheerily. He coloured and scuttled away. We drank gin to keep warm, and she chatted for nearly an hour to my dog-mad toddler about canine care.

“And has he got a lead and a belt and a silver clip and a bowl for food and a bowl for his drink and a basket?” the little one asked her, more than seven times.

“Oh yes, he most certainly has,” the woman explained again and again and again.

This happy scene was broken by one of the new godparents, who came and sat next to me, swaggering slightly in his very elegant suit. “Do you have a godchild?” he asked.

“I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but I have 11,” I said.

“You’ll be up the creek if all the parents cop it,” he replied.

“Yes, that is probably true,” I agreed. “We would buy a Routemaster and kit it out with bunks, I expect.”

“What do you do?” he continued. I didn’t mind that he posed this question but it isn’t one I ever ask. Why not? Because it’s nosey. I don’t hold with such a direct line of enquiry. You may as well go all-out, Oxbridge interview-style, and demand: “Say something brilliant about Wordsworth!” Besides, so many people don’t feel that their job or lack of job truly represents them. Quite a few are between things these days, uncertain and anxious, and do not wish to be defined by their current lack of definition. Even if you have a very clear answer, such as “I am a Catholic priest, as it goes” or “I am the home secretary,” your certainty can seem tactless or boastful in the face of others’ more hazy employ.

“I am a writer,” I said. He laughed, and looked me up and down, doubtfully, in the fashion of a teenager in a bus queue. He shook his head derisively. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

I took a deep breath. “If you must.”

“Would you say you came from a middle-class background?”

“I do.”

‘”I knew it!” He smiled, knowingly.

“Right,” I nodded.

“I knew it when you said that you were a writer,” he continued. “I expect your secure and comfortable middle-class upbringing gives you the confidence to make that claim about yourself. People like you have no idea.” Facing this strange fellow, legions of possible retorts clouded my mind. I built a little pyramid where honest courtesy sat at the bottom and vicious outrage teetered wildly at the summit. Possible responses included:

“I only say I am a writer because it’s true”; “I know I once claimed that all other people are to a certain extent our own creations but your version of me is so unfamiliar that you had better answer any further questions you have for me yourself”; “Can you give me more details about my wondrous carefree childhood, s’il vous plaît?”; “Please know that I take full responsibility for everything that has ever gone wrong in your life.”

. . .

I said none of these things, of course. It was all rather odd. I tried to imagine how little means such a contretemps to God.

“You see” – the fellow was still speaking – “I am a prize-winning photographer, my photos are owned by all sorts of celebrities, but because I also work in a restaurant I tell people that I am a waiter. And that is because I had a difficult working-class upbringing, whereas you with your easy and privileged start in life are able to announce to the world that you write.”

I made a lurid list of everything that’s ever gone wrong for me, changed the font into bold caps, parcelled it up into a bulging file and dragged it over into the trash part of my mental filing system. “Oh right, I see,” I said. “Well, I’d be very interested to hear more about about your photography work. Are there any current projects you could tell me about?”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Not at all.”

“Wow, I’ve really pressed your buttons, haven’t I? You’re on the back foot. I can see this conversation is uncomfortable for you. Do we have some little issues by any chance?” His grin was wide.

“Not at all,” I answered. “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry but I see my toddler has disappeared into yonder forest, please forgive me if I pursue her, won’t you? ... ”

Ten minutes later there was a little tug at the half belt of my polka dot mac. “I’d like to continue our conversation from earlier,” the fellow said. “I was enjoying it. I think you misunderstood me. What I was trying to say was that when you have had to fight for stuff all your life, it’s hard.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m not blaming you.”

“Thanks for that,” I replied.

susie.boyt@ft.com
More columns at www.ft.com/boyt