Unlike the character of Daisy Buchanan in “The Great Gatsby,” my voice is not full of money. My voice is full of traffic.
But it’s also full of laughter, wisecracks and emotion.
I have no class. Everybody who knows me would agree, the only difference being that some apologize, sotto voce, on my behalf while others yell it from the rooftops in delight.
Class is like sexual modesty: Only somebody without it can talk about it in public. That’s why I’m your girl.
I learned how class was traditionally defined by watching old movies and reading books. I went to an Ivy League school on a scholarship and went to Cambridge University on a fellowship. All of this means I can do a terrific imitation of mid-Atlantic accent and speak fluently in what used to be referred to as Received Standard English. But I can only do it for a couple of minutes because after that I expect Henry Higgins to announce, “By George, I think she’s got it!”