Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXVI

Finishing school disaster

Some people just don't have it. No matter how hard they try, etiquettes just elude them

I was never very high on etiquettes. Don't get me wrong. It's not like I was trying to break the norms and the shackles of conventional codes of behaviour. I was doing no such thing. I admit that I loathed pretty much everything that the finishing school rule book had to say. But then, I had to live by the book, didn't I? That fetched me comments like, 'what a well brought-up child' or 'she is growing up to be a lovely young woman'.
But such remarks came my way only occasionally. As I said, I was never too good with niceties. Perhaps my true self was a bit troublesome to control. As a child I hadn't become efficient enough in acting and pretending. I tried very hard though. Like, I would hold the door ajar for some nasty distant-relative aunt and even hold her sweaty palms to haul her up the stairs of our house as she was a little too fat (I called her a big fat hen behind her back and she heard, as I said, I was not too good at the act) to climb without effort.
And, as I held the door and she had barely squeezed in, I thought she had made it through the gap and let go of the door and it slammed on her bum. I told you, I was not too good at the act. So, no matter how hard I tried, I slipped and failed. But I never gave up learning. At five-star hotels, I dropped forks. At classy congregations at the elite clubs, I pronounced English words incorrectly, and that, in an effort to sound like BBC. At classical concerts, I asked aloud who was 'that guy' singing.
But I trudged on and gradually, I thught, I had minimised the number of faux pas. I even learnt to wear heels without tripping and people began considering me as quite a prudish, classy lady. Mission accomplished!
Then came a luncheon invite with a retired colonel. That too with one of those foreign-returned aunts. We sat at a garden table on a very primmed lawn, the colonel impressive, and gaunt, in his crisp jacket and tie. The servant brought shandy for the ladies. And I was so parched (for a drink) that I just took my glass right off the tray before the servant could place it, the proper way, on the coasters on the table.
The colonel, being a gentleman, had to overlook his lady guest's utter lack of education. My aunt pinched me under the table. And I said, 'whoa'. Actually, I nearly yelled it. The colonel cringed, the aunt glared, I apologised. Profusely. We went inside for lunch and I was already a little heady with the shandy, the summer breeze, the intoxicating smell of garden flowers. I was loving it, as they would say.
We were seated at the table, happy and all set to satisfy my famished self. Then it dawned on me. I was Vivian. From Pretty Woman people. Of course, not one jot as prety as Julia, but I was her. I had no freaking idea of what the food was, or how to use my spoons (if they could be so called) or when to use them. After a little struggle, with the servants smirking at my predicament, I just dug my fingers into the food-like thing. I was helpless, but they were unforgiving.
A servant walked up and offered to clear my plate and show me to the restroom. Which was also all right. But as I got up, I saw him struggling with my plate and glass and bowl and whatever, and, out of old habit (remember?) held the door open for him. I could hear silent shrieks from every one. That was an absolute disgrace of a conduct. I had broken all idioms, all ethics, all hierarchis that had been carefully constructed by man over centuries. I had breached the border. After a few more strained moments of politeness, we were expelled from the house, never to return again.