Nancy, my mother, drummed into me a set of lower middle-class rules, the origins and the validity of which remain, a lifetime later, lost to comprehension.
Yet still I stick by them: I never stack plates when eating out; I never refer to a napkin as a serviette; I never utter the phrase ‘Pleased to meet you,’ instead of ‘How do you do?’ upon fresh introductions.
And having been introduced I never