Possibly the very last academic writing piece of my entire life takes up all my time and energy. I will be one proud student once my dissertation is handed in. I know I love a bit of complaining, but the idea of not having to write anything else, ever again, makes me sad.

“Class is not just about the way you talk, or dress, or furnish your home; it is not about the job you do or how much money you make doing it; nor it is merely about whether or not you have A levels or went to university, nor which university you went to. Class is something beneath your clothes, under your skin, in your reflexes, in your psyche, at the very core of your being. In the all-encompassing English class system, if you know that you are in the ‘wrong’ class, you know you are a valueless person. Working-class children of my generation who, against the odds, got a selective secondary education learned this lesson every time they put on their grammar school uniforms. The price they were asked to pay for their education was amnesia, a sense of being uprooted-and above all, perhaps, a loss of authenticity, an inability to draw on the wisdom, strength and resources of their roots to forge their own paths to adulthood.”[1]

Web definition: emotions experienced when not in a state of well being.