A few years back I was in my mid 20s and in a relationship with a posh English girl called Beatrice – Bee for short, or variations of good little slut in private. We met at the Fringe in Edinburgh and while that first week deserves it’s own stories, I’ve been thinking a lot about our holidays in France recently. Bee and her family exemplify what a lot of people think of the British. Firmly upper middle class, everyone except for Bee educated at Oxford, a holiday home in France and all the trappings.
Which made it all the more enjoyable for me that Bee herself loved nothing more than to serve and be demeaned by a working class German immigrant, ideally in places her parents loved. She was tall and slender, with dark black hair and typically English pale skin that bruised beautifully. About a year into our relationship it was time for her regular trip to her parents little villa in the south of France. Wanting to make the most of it I convinced her we should drive down a few days early, make it a roadtrip and get the place ready for everyone else.