I swim back to the shores of privilege out of the sea of the dispossessed. - J. P. Donleavy

My god, one can see such a different side of people when one's merely a menial.
O God what utter amazing ruddy bliss to no longer be a menial.

Darcy Dancer crossing the frosty cobbles of the farmyard. Snorts and stampings in the stables. The whinnies of Molly and Petunia. Who smell me near. Luke mucking out. Forking up the big brown lumps of dung matted with yellow straw and shovelling it into his barrow. At least someone is working. But I suppose I shall have to spout a few hackneyed words to pass the time of day.
"Good morning to you sir. It's grand to see you up and about."
"Thank you Luke. It's a chilly draughty old morning."
"'Tis that sir."
"Gives one a mind to thank god for inventing fire."
"Ah now you've said it, sir. On these winter days you need the little bit of hell the Lord puts flaming in a grate."

To a blonde tweedy lady I had to administer a few I beg your pardons before she would await her turn. When a red nosed tinkerish looking Jarvey with a rather scrawny mare pulled up. In my most gentlemanly fashion I ushered these three older country people just behind to proceed ahead of me. But they nodded in eight directions and looked up at the sky in four more as if asking every saint in heaven for assistance and then urged me with their country voices to take the horsecab.
"Ah, it's soon enough later for the likes of us."