I'm starting to think it's time to indoctrinate my daughter with my anti-Thatcher diatribes

"Are we what?"

"Middle class. Or are we lower class?"

I wish I could tell you we were drinking skinny flat whites in a West End bistro during this conversation but that would be too neat and tidy. Life's not like that and I don't drink skinny flat whites and I'm hardly ever in West End bistros.

"Lower class?" I say. "There's no such thing. No one's lower. There's middle and upper and working class."

We are in fact walking up Dumbarton Road in Stirling towards the Smith Museum after lunch in Papa Joe's. A Mother's Day treat for J's mum. Not very West End at all.

"Yeah, but which one are we?"

"Well, we're not upper class, are we?

"Lower middle class," chips in Daughter Number One.

"Anyway, why does it matter?" I say. "I just want to know," Daughter Number Two replies.

"Well, it all depends on how you define it. Traditionally working class people worked with their hands.

"You work with your hands."

"What?

"You type."

"Ah, not really what I meant. I was thinking more of carpenters and bricklayers. That's what your grandad was. A bricklayer. So you're from working class stock. It's just your mum and dad could be considered middle class because of their education and their income. Although frankly I'm not sure about income."

"If you're on benefits does that mean you are working class?"

"OK, that's a tougher one. It all gets a little fuzzy around the edges."

I'm starting to think it's time to indoctrinate my daughter with my anti-Thatcher diatribes but we've arrived at the museum. [2]

This is a Mothers' Day outing too. There's an exhibition on at the Smith about the Polmaise miners and the miners' strike. Almost as soon as walk in. J's mum immediately points out a picture of her brother Eddie standing on the stage at the Albert Hall. Sitting beside him is Mick McGahey and Arthur Scargill. Dennis Canavan is sitting behind him. The picture was taken in 1984 or 1985. A year later J and I would be back in the same hall for our graduation.

"Did Eddie work at Polmont?" I ask.

"I can't remember," J's mum says. "He was in Manor Powis. He was in a few. He might have been."

This is all ancient history to the kids, of course. They pass vaguely interested glances at the Coal Not Dole badges, the Thatcher mugs, the NUM banners. But J, her mum and I are remembering one of the central political events of our lives. Even if for two of us our involvement stopped at giving money to the striking miners at the door of the Thistle Centre.

We look around. We ask the obvious questions. "What's the name of that newsreader talking to Mick McGahey?"

"Is that Louise Bachelor with a Princess Di haircut?" [3]

J's mum signs the visitor's book. "Memories," she writes.

She's always known what class she belongs to.

[1] ie, last Sunday afternoon.

[2] That's my paternal duty, right?

[3] It suited her.