Watching the English

HOUSE-TALK RULES

Whatever your social class, there are rules governing not only what you must do when you move into a house, but also how you should talk about it - or rather, to be more precise, how you should moan about it.

The 'Nightmare' Rule

When talking about your house-move, it must always be described as traumatic, fraught with difficulty and disruption, even if in fact the process was completed smoothly and without noticeable stress. This rule applies to the initial house-hunting, the purchase of the house, the move itself, any DIY undertaken upon moving in, and 'having the builders in': it is universally understood that all of these are 'a nightmare'. To describe them in any more favourable or even neutral terms would be regarded as odd, possibly even as arrogant - as somehow implying that you are immune to the stresses and upsets afflicting all normal house-buyers.

There is a modesty-rule implied here as well. The more grand or desirable your new residence, the more you must emphasize the troubles, inconveniences and 'nightmares' involved in its acquisition and improvement. One does not boast about one's purchase of a beautiful Cotswold cottage or even a chateau in France: one moans about the awfulness of the estate agents, the carelessness of the removal men, the obtuseness of the local builders or the dire state of the plumbing, roof, floors or garden.

Done well, with just the right air of long-suffering humour, this kind of English moaning can be remarkably convincing, and highly effective in deflecting envy. I have found myself sympathizing - genuinely sympathizing - with the beleaguered new owners of just such bijou cottages and grand chateaux. Even if you are not convinced, and indeed even if you are boiling with envy, resentment or righteous indignation, the correct response is to express sympathy: 'How infuriating!' 'You must be exhausted!' 'What a nightmare!'

At one level, this ritual moaning is of course an indirect boast - an excuse to talk about one's new property and convey its attractions without appearing to crow. At the same time, however, it can also be seen as another manifestation of English 'polite egalitarianism', a less invidious form of hypocrisy. The moaners, by emphasising the mundane practical details and difficulties of home-buying or moving, are focusing on problems they and their listeners have in common, matters with which we can all identify, and politely deflecting attention from any potentially embarrassing disparity in wealth or status. I could sympathize with my chateau-buying friends because their laments centred on the only element of their situation that could be compared with my own humble removals from one cheap flat to another. But this practice is observed by all classes, and in circumstances of much less dramatic income-disparity. Only the most vulgar nouveaux-riches break the rule and tell house-move stories that blatantly advertise their superior wealth.

Money-talk Rules

Similar modesty rules apply to the discussion of house prices, compounded by the usual English squeamishness about money-talk. Although conversations about house prices have become a staple at middle-class dinner parties, they are conducted in accordance with a delicate etiquette. It is absolutely forbidden to ask directly what someone paid for their house (or indeed any item in their house): this is almost as unforgivably rude as asking them what they earn.

In the interests of science, I deliberately broke this rule a few times. Well, to be honest I only really did it twice. My first attempt doesn't count, as I hedged my price-enquiry about with so many anxious apologies and qualifiers and excuses (such as a fictitious friend thinking of buying a house in the area) that it could not possibly be considered a direct question. Even so, the experience was not wasted, as the reactions of my unwitting lab-rats indicated that my apologies and excuses were not seen as at all excessive or out of place.

On the two occasions when I managed to steel myself, take a deep breath and ask the house-price question properly (or rather, improperly), the lab-rats responded with predictable embarrassment. They answered my question, but in an awkward, uncomfortable manner: one forced himself to mutter an approximate price, then hastily changed the subject; the other, a female, laughed nervously and replied with her hand half-covering her mouth, while her other guests looked sideways at me, coughed uneasily and exchanged raised-eyebrow glances across the table. Yes, all right: raised eyebrows and a bit of embarrassed throat-clearing are probably the worst that can happen to you when you commit breaches of English dinner-party etiquette, so my experiments might not sound particularly heroic. Maybe you have to be English to know just how wounding those eyebrows and coughs can be.

The house-talk rules also state that it is not done to introduce the price paid for your own house into the conversation without good cause and suitable preamble. The price of your house can only be mentioned 'in context', and even then only if this can somehow be done in a self-deprecating manner, or at least in a such a way as to make it clear that you are not engaging in an ostentatious display of wealth. You can mention the price of your house, for example, if you bought it many years ago, for what now seems a ludicrously low sum.

The current value of your house, for some unfathomable reason, is a different matter, and may be the subject of endless discussion and speculation - although current property prices, including the estimated value of your own property, must always be described as 'silly', 'crazy', 'absurd' or 'outrageous'. This perhaps gives us a clue as to why value can be discussed while price cannot: it seems that the current value of a house is regarded as a matter entirely outside our control, rather like the weather, while the price actually paid for a house is a clear indicator of a person's financial status.

Improvement-talk Rules

Whatever your class or financial status, and whatever the value of the house you are moving into, it is customary to disparage the taste of the previous occupant. If you do not have the time, skill or funds necessary to rip out all evidence of the former owner's bad taste, you must, when showing friends around your new house, sigh deeply, roll your eyes or grimace and say: 'Well, it's not what we would have chosen, obviously, but we'll just have to live with it for the moment,' or, more succinctly, 'We haven't done this room yet.' This will also save your guests from the dire embarrassment of complimenting you on a room that has not been 'done', and then having to backtrack with awkward face-savers such as 'Oh, of course, when I say "lovely" I mean the proportions, er, the view, um, er, I mean, it's got such potential...'

When showing visitors the results of your DIY efforts, or talking about your home-improvements at a party or in the pub, a strict modesty rule applies. Even if you are highly skilled, you must always play down your achievements, and if possible play up your most embarrassing mistakes and blunders. The SIRC DIY-temple sample of nestbuilders, and my own department-store and pub-eavesdropping samples, invariably followed this rule - sometimes even engaging in almost competitive self-deprecation, trying to cap each other's amusing stories of disastrous incompetence. 'I managed to burst three pipes just laying the carpet!' 'We bought an expensive carpet, but I ruined it by cutting it four inches short, so I had to build some bookcases to cover the gap.' 'I somehow managed to put the sink in the wrong way round - and I'd done all the tiles before I noticed.' 'You think that's bad: it took me an hour and three cups of tea to put up a coat-hook board, and then I found I'd hung it upside-down!' 'So I painted over the dodgy bit and tried to pretend it was meant to look like that, but my girlfriend was like, "You complete muppet!"'

Class Variations in House-talk Rules

House-talk, like everything else in England, is also subject to class rules. Unless you have just recently moved in and are 'housewarming', or happen to live in a particularly odd or unusual house (such as a converted lighthouse or church), it is considered rather lower-class to give visitors guided tours, or to invite them to inspect your new bathroom, kitchen extension, loft conversion or recently re-decorated 'front room'. Middle-middles and below are inclined to engage in such ritual displays - and may even invite friends round specifically to show off their new conservatory or kitchen - but among upper-middles and above, this is frowned upon. Among the highest echelons of English society, this affected lack of interest is required of visitors as well as hosts: it is considered incorrect to notice one's surroundings when visiting someone at home, and paying compliments is regarded as decidedly 'naff', if not downright rude. A duke was said to have huffed in outrage: 'Fellow praised my chairs, damned cheek!' after a visit from a new neighbour.

Some traces of this upper-class squeamishness about house-display have trickled down, at least to the middle classes: they may indulge in a bit of showing-off of conservatories and so on, but there are often hints of awkwardness or embarrassment. They will lead you to their new pride-and-joy kitchen, but will then attempt to appear dismissive or indifferent about it, making modest, self-effacing remarks such as: 'Well, we had to do something - it had got into such a state', damning themselves with faint praise - 'At least it's a bit brighter with the skylight'; or focusing on the inevitable difficulties ('nightmares') involved in the refurbishment: 'It was supposed to take a week, but we've had plaster and dust and total chaos in here for over a month.'

Unlike the higher castes, however, these modest middles will not be offended by praise, although it is generally advisable to be vague rather than specific in your compliments. The English tend to be terribly touchy about their homes, and if you are too precise, there is always the danger of praising the wrong aspect of their latest improvement, or praising it in the wrong terms - calling a room 'cosy' or 'cheerful', say, when your hosts were aiming for an impression of stylish elegance. It is best to stick to generic expressions of approbation such as 'lovely' or 'very nice' unless you know the people well enough to be more explicit.

The Awful Estate-agent Rule

This extreme touchiness, evidence of the extent to which our identity is bound up with our homes, helps to explain the universal and apparently quite irrational English dislike of estate agents. You will rarely hear a good word spoken about estate agents in this country: even people who have never had any dealings with them invariably speak of them with contempt. There is a clear unwritten rule to the effect that estate agents must be constantly mocked, sneered at, censured and abused. They are on a par with traffic wardens and double-glazing salesmen - but while the offences of traffic wardens and salesmen are obvious, I found that no-one could quite put a finger on exactly what estate agents do to deserve their vilification.

When I asked people to account for their aversion to estate agents, the responses were vague, inconsistent and often contradictory: estate agents were ridiculed as stupid and incompetent 'twits', but also reviled as sly, grasping, cunning and deceitful. Finding it hard to see how estate agents could manage to be simultaneously dim-witted and deviously clever, I eventually gave up pressing for a rational explanation of their unpopularity, and tried instead to look for clues in the detailed mechanics of our interactions with them. What exactly do estate agents do? They come to inspect your house, look around it with an objective eye, put a value on it, advertise it, show people round it and try to sell it. What is so terribly offensive about that? Well, everything, if you replace the word 'house' with 'identity', 'personality', 'social status' or 'taste'. Everything that estate agents do involves passing judgement not on some neutral piece of property but on us, on our lifestyle, our social position, our character, our private self. And sticking a price tag on it. No wonder we can't stand them. By making them the butt of our jokes and scorn, we minimize their power to hurt our feelings: if estate agents are universally agreed to be stupid, ineffectual and insincere, their opinions and judgements become less meaningful, their intrusions into our private sphere less traumatic.