Jayne Dowle: Prosecco, Peter Kay and learning to be posh

Incidentally, having "aunties", an honorary title given to particularly close friends of your mother, and a source of great hilarity from the Bolton comedian, is very working class. As you will see, I tick plenty of "posh" boxes, but it is telling that my two children have more "aunties" than most.

Anyway, unlike almost everyone else I knew, Aunty Irene bought everything at Marks & Spencer. Worshipping at the shrine of St Michael seemed to me the very epitome of social aspiration.

She also took in sewing for a rather smart dress shop. This gave her – and me – unfettered access to the great and the good of South Yorkshire, who all seemed to make their way to her little two-up, two-down with alterations for their evening "gowns".

One day, we even had a proper Lady turn up. What she thought of Aunty Irene, down on her knees with her mouth full of pins, and me, skulking behind the door taking mental notes, I have no idea. But we could deduce from her glossy straight hair, and her big plain diamond solitaire ring, that she was a cut above.

Now, according to new research, you can tell you are posh if you

shop at Waitrose, have a cleaner, call your evening meal "supper" and drive a 4x4.

Well, our nearest Waitrose is in Sheffield, so I can't tick that box. And apparently, according to another fascinating bit of new research, although the middle classes are all rooting out the supermarket own-brand bargains, two thirds of them worry about "being judged financially on where they shop". No such qualms in this house. Netto is the nearest, so Netto it is.

But I'll admit to the cleaner and the 4x4. I should add, however, that I've known my cleaner since our families once stayed in the same Blackpool boarding house, and the 4x4 is six years old with a bumper held together by gaffer tape. I'll also admit to "supper", but only when my proper solid Surrey middle-class husband is at home. Having lived in London for years, and travelled all over the place, he adapts fairly well to any environment, but it only confuses him when me and the kids call lunch "dinner", so I find myself making allowances.

To a casual observer, we are probably more posh than not. We do eat hummus (another dead giveaway, apparently), I know what Prosecco is (although my husband gets it confused with prosciutto), I go to

the ballet/opera (although my husband refuses point blank to accompany me), and if Champagne counts, I have, on occasion, spent more than 10 on a bottle of wine.

In fact, by this reckoning, I am more posh than my husband. Go figure that one, researchers. Working-class girl from Barnsley allegedly more posh than middle-class boy from Surrey. How did that happen?

Well, I blame my education. Three years at Oxford was like a crash-course in the English class system. I learned a lot about Anglo-Saxon poetry, sure, but I learned a lot more about the subtle differences

which define exactly where you fit in; real oil paintings, however amateurish, are preferable to prints, never send carnations or chrysanthemums, and despite what Hyacinth Bouquet thought, net curtains are common. Like, why? Who invents these rules? Where do they come from? I can't answer that, so I asked a few friends round at my house on Friday night.

Jeanette asked me to describe what I was sitting on. When I

replied "sofa", she clapped her hands – "there, you're posh". If I'd called it "settee", or "couch" then I wouldn't be, she added. Jackie reckons it is all to do with where you live, but there is a council estate across the road, so not that posh then. Keely reckons it has a lot to do with what you eat, but working class and upper class unite over pudding and custard and over-cooked veg. I think Judith's definition of posh as someone who says "newsagent" rather than "paper-shop" hits the nail on the head. So, if you got this morning's newspaper from the former, not the latter, you know who you are.

Nancy Mitford, that unashamedly-grand chronicler of English social mores, also struggled with the problem, and famously invented the terms "U" and "Non-U" to identify class distinctions in her 1956 book Noblesse Oblige.

Life was so simple then, though. Work out whether you said looking glass or mirror, preserve or jam, and of course, wealthy or rich, and everyone knew their place. Now we've got Lottery multi-millionaires living in Georgian mansions, titled girls with accents like barrow-boys, and people like me, with our Prosecco in the fridge and Peter Kay aunties, confounding the researchers.

All I know is that if you are really posh, you never actually say

"posh". So, that settles it. I can't be. But are you?