My name is Liz and I hate posh people. Whenever I visit west London (home of the super skinny Notting Hill set), I have to grit my teeth.
Braying socialites roam the streets shopping for expensive baubles. Yummy mummies elbow you into the gutter.
And anything in a school uniform is strictly to be avoided.
Funnily enough, west London hates me in return. Whenever I am there something goes wrong. I get lost, the shop or gallery does not exist, the play is cancelled. It is as if the locals spot me coming, class hatred seeping from every pore, and the social drawbridge goes down.
Undying breed
I never thought class would be my issue in the 21st century. I had rather assumed posh people were a dying breed. In the past, of course, they ran the City and the professions, but now under classless New Labour, we are done with all that surely?
I genuinely believed that if you worked hard, the meek (in the form of comprehensive school kids and Essex girls and boys) would inherit the Earth. Or at least inherit a level playing field.
I even began to feel sorry for posh people. How can you hate a challenged minority who cannot dress themselves and need a servant to squeeze the toothpaste? Who live in freezing cold houses with dry rot and a pack of spittle-flecked wolfhounds, and are desperate to sell up to the National Trust?
But, dear God, I was wrong. The posh are thriving. The yuppies are back. Forty years after girls in pearls stopped curtsying to the Queen, there are debutante parties and white-tie balls. Boris Johnson is being touted as a credible candidate for Mayor. Thank God for Polly Toynbee denouncing him as a "toff and sociopath".
Headstart in life
"Why are you so chippy about posh people?" teased a wealthy friend of mine recently. "What's your problem?" It is a good question.
Posh people have a head start in life. They have better skin and hair (good genes, plenty of leisure, lack of brow-furrowing debt).
They walk into a room expecting things to go their way. They have a stellar jet-set social life and a wardrobe to match. They even have charm.
I look around the offices where I work and there are no working-class kids any more. In a world where you cannot buy a one-bedroom flat for under £250,000, (Dh918,917) in UK they cannot afford to do unpaid work placements in the media or the arts or fashion. Only the children of the rich and famous can live with mummy and daddy, rent-free.
Have you noticed how many double-barrelled names now crop up on the internal phone list? And the worst thing about the public school set is they do not hire outsiders.
An old Etonian is only ever comfortable with a fellow old Etonian. Even my great class hero, Polly Toynbee, is a direct descendant of the 9th Earl of Carlisle.
Classification: Guide to the posh genre
Truly posh
Who are they: Breeding over money. The Royal Family. Anyone with a county named after them. Members: Prince William, Isabella Calthorpe, Duke of Westminster, Bunter Worcester.
Where to spot one: In the Royal box, in Scotland since August 12, partying in Boujis.
Most likely to say: "I don't do bridges." (They would never live south of the River.)
Posher than you think
Who are they: Dress-down aristocracy, normal day jobs, secretly titled. Members: Sabrina Guinness, Helena Bonham Carter, Dan Macmillan (Earl of Stockton's son), Polly Toynbee, Peter Phillips, Justin Portman, Harriet Harman, William Sitwell.
Where to spot one: Shopping in Oxfam, hosting an arts festival in their gardens, slumming it in Ibiza.
Most likely to say: "Don't you just loathe toffs?"
Not as posh as you think
Who are they: Middle classes made (very) good, billionaires who bought into society. Members: Hugh Grant, Tamara Mellon, Liz (although she insists on being called Elizabeth) Hurley, the Goldsmiths.
Where to spot one: Annabel's, Aspinall's, Cipriani and Goodwood.
Most likely to say: "First class is ghastly now, too many civilians."
Nouveau posh
Who are they: Ferociously socially ambitious. More money than breeding, mock mansion. Members: Kate Middleton, Posh Spice, Sting and Trudie Styler.
Where to spot one: Rubbing shoulders with Royals at Boujis, shopping in Mayfair (but not in Jigsaw).
Most likely to say: "What is for tea?", "toilet", "lounge" and "cruet".
Working-class hero
Who are they: Council house children made good, credentials include outdoor lavatory ("toilet"). Members: John Simm, Julie Burchill, Dame Helena Kennedy, Kate Moss, Janet Street Porter.
Where to spot one: Groucho Club, noisy pub in Camden Town, eating jellied eels (even though they do not like them).
Most likely to say: "A shoebox? You were lucky!"
Rags to riches
Who are they: Barrow-boy background, shed-loads of cash, one-woman brands, zillionaires at 30, own curator. Members: Madonna , Sir Alan Sugar, Natalia Vodianova, Chris Evans.
Where to spot one: Fayed's heliport, relaxing on a super yacht, in a rich list.
Most likely to say: "Money's no object"; "You're fired!"
Grammar-school boys
Who are they: Intellect over money, important in liberal arts establishment, usually are boys. Members: David Walliams , Harold Pinter, Melvyn Bragg.
Where to spot one: The BBC, anywhere leafy in north London, British Library, arty members' clubs such as Blacks and 2 Brydges Place, front row at the National.
Most likely to say: "The Streets' new album is modern-day Chaucer."
Faux prole
Who are they: More mockney mouth than cor blimey trousers. Posh lineage or secret public schooling.
Members: Amy Winehouse, Polly Toynbee, Tony Benn, Lily Allen, Kate Winslet.
Where to spot one: Eating fish and chips (at their wedding), scuffing round the East End with a hangover and hair like a tramp, anti-war demos.
Most likely to say: "I've always hated Cameron. Even when we were at school."
Because posh kids are different. They may shop at the high street and buy mini meals and listen to the Arctic Monkeys or the Killers. But at weekends they zoom on down to their parents' stately pile. The new nepotism rules. Once upon a time they flounced around their castles. Now they are after our jobs. With indecent haste - and seemingly no training - they are fast-tracked to become journalists, chefs, curators and TV presenters.
Thoughtless nature
But what I dislike most about many posh people is they are thoughtless. They simply cannot imagine why it takes some people longer to edge up the ladder or why they live in temporary housing or cannot pay their utility bills. They do not see anyone else in 3D.
So you can imagine how thrilled I was to learn there is a name for my condition: euaxophobia, dislike of posh people. Do not get me wrong. I believe in a meritocracy, I really do. If you have earned your success, good for you. But if you have simply inherited it, then please do not for one minute imagine it is cool.
