I don’t know what happened in my past, but I cannot stand the term “my dear”. I didn’t like it when I was little. I didn’t like it when I was young. I didn’t like it when I was middle-aged.
But now I’m old, I positively hate it!
“My dear” is patronising. “Dear” is patronising.
To whom am I dear? Not to the receptionist, the taxi driver, the nurse, the shop assistant, the bank teller, or any other stranger. I forbid anyone in my family to call me dear.
And my friends never have.
THEY know I’m not a dear – I’m just a grumpy old lady, grouchy, irritable and sharp-tongued.