I was definitely younger than fifteen (though my legs at that earlier stage were less heron-like and more like tree trunks) for by the time I had reached Gigi's age I had gone into long skirts. Before then I had however been made aware that short skirts were hazardous, particularly as ra-ras were in fashion. Knickers, on no account, must be seen, which really meant you couldn't sprawl and make yourself comfortable anywhere. Thank god for choice, thank god for trousers, because who wants to behave like a lady, little or big, young or old, all the time.
There were other rules too, some of which I still stick to or that adhere to me: Don't talk with your mouth full; don't eat with your mouth open; ask to leave the table; say please and thank you; don't slouch; stand up straight; don't drag your feet.
Naturally, living alone I don't now ask to leave the table, but I remember when I did. I used to hide under it as the adults continued. It's not as daft as it sounds. There was no choice: to go under was the only way to get down; granted however I didn't have to stay underneath it. I seem to however like being amongst feet, hidden from view. A big, silent mouse. If there were three mice, as there sometimes were, it would make the adults uneasy and we would be told to get out from under it.
As for posture, well, it hasn't greatly improve but initially it was caused by perversity, for how I hated that constant refrain: don't slouch, shoulders back. Left to my own devices, I slumped, shoulders over, body down. Then it became a habit, where to do otherwise I had to think hard, as if my body kept being overtaken by a huge sigh. From disaffected youth to disaffected adult. Why am I here? Standing up straight gets you noticed, I thought; the opposite is truer and more irritating, and marks you out as lazy or apologetic. I dare to exist! But I do and don't want to be noticed so don't. Such is the confused feelings of the teenaged youth and the young adult.
The prompt answering to being called went to not answering at all, to pretending not to hear. I wasn't there, I wasn't within range, even if only in the next room it was evident I was. Never left alone was how it felt. Doing what? Nothing particularly. Loafing. Reading. The latter not seen as necessary during the day. And so I stubbornly ignored my name being called until it couldn't be ignored any longer, usually because the person who'd been calling was then in front of me. Time to profess all innocence and say 'No, I didn't hear you', and hope that my facial expression matched the words coming out of my mouth. I was not born to lie, occasionally omit or deny, but not tell an outright and outrageous lie. And I was a dutiful girl. I normally did what was asked, often without being asked, so was it really too much to buy myself some time? When I was an adult I wouldn't forget as so many thousands did.
I haven't, but then I've never tested myself. Perhaps if I had been a parent I too would imitate their nagging calls. I know I would, in all likelihood, try to instil the same rules of propriety, though I wonder whether they would work, or even if they're relevant, in this modern age? Do they matter as much as they once did? The etiquette which used to be applied to most if not all circumstances has lost its appeal, for it does not now signal anything. And the 'new' etiquette changes so fast and so often it's hard to keep up with; you never know where you are, which is why I think back to what I know, and, though I point out its faults from a child's perspective, stand by it.
The rules have served me well, even if at times they have made me feel a little stiff in company, and if I wish now I had listened and looked after my posture better. Decorum requires a lot of you, especially if you're a girl soon to turn into a young lady, for your conduct in certain situations is everything.
Picture credit: The Rosebud Garden of Girls (the second Mrs G F Watts and her sisters) taken by Julia Margaret Cameron (source: Wikimedia).
See: Gigi by Colette.
Written in lockdown, May 2020.
