Nobody told you. Now somebody has.
In the autumn he turned fifteen, a boy called Danny came to work in the gardens at Everell Hall. He came from a council house on the far side of Gloucester, and he'd left school with nothing much but a gift for mending bicycles.
A month before a formal dinner, a guest dropped out, and Julian's grandfather told Danny he'd be making up the twelve. So every evening for thirty evenings, the old Colonel sat him at the kitchen table and taught him one rule. Only one. The next day, Danny practised it on everyone.
On the night, he sat between a bishop's wife and a man who owned a fair slice of Herefordshire, and not one person at that table guessed he hadn't been born to it.
This book is those thirty evenings, written down.
- You don't have to be born to it. Everyone who looks as though they were was simply taught.
- It doesn't cost money. A napkin can be kitchen roll. A thank-you note costs a stamp.
- You don't have to sound posh. Keep your own voice. What people notice is whether you're at ease.

