IF SOMEONE asked me to which class I belong, I would probably say ‘middle’, but with hesitation.

I grew up in a nice house in a country village with parents who worked in professional white collar jobs. I went to university - something that in those days only a small percentage of children did, and pursued a career in another professional white collar sector.

In essence, it’s middle class, but am I, as an individual, really middle class?

Debates about class never cease to rage. Last week a user of the parenting website Mumsnet struck up a lively exchange about the markers of being working class, after declaring that she holidayed at Center Parcs, shopped at Iceland, Heron Foods and Home Bargains, rummaged in charity shops, drunk Chardonnay, got drunk at BBQs and took part in karaoke.

Others chipped in, agreeing, but adding that Center Parcs was more middle class and only Butlins, Blackpool or a caravan would fit a working class profile.

I spend hours in charity shops, I love Home Bargains but also shop at M&S and John Lewis. I’ve had many caravan holidays and loved them, but also stayed in cottages and hotels. I enjoy a glass of Chardonnay and choose wine by the label and alcohol content rather than the vintage (I’m also partial to screw top rather than corked). What does that make me?

Some Mumsnet members claim that if you have an avocado or pomegranate in your fridge, you're middle class. I haven’t got either of those foods in my fridge, but I do have half a can of beans, a bottle of brown sauce, and two cans of cider. That combination has got to be working class, surely? But there’s also a Gu pudding, half a melon and some Sainsbury’s finely sliced ‘Taste the Difference’ ham. Upper-middle?

I have a garage - but there’s no room for the car. Is having a garage full of rubbish working class?

I’ve read that eating dinner on your knee in front of the TV is working class: we do that, although my husband calls it ‘supper’, ticking the upper class box.

The issue is more confusing than a Scandinavian crime drama.

I’m not the only one to struggle with it. According to research carried out last year 60 per cent of us think of ourselves as torchbearers for the blue-collar class despite there being more middle-class people than ever before.

Although politicians have on occasion declared that “we are all middle class now” the British Social Attitudes survey shows that Britons have clung to working-class values even when they have moved up in the income scale. Nearly half of people in managerial and professional occupations described themselves as working class.

Jeremy Corbyn grew up in a seven-bedroom manor house, attended private school and now earns nearly £133,000 a year, but struggles to admit he is middle class.

At the risk of stating a spat I’ve got better working class credentials than him.

I bet he doesn’t have an ironing board permanently installed in his living room like I do. He won’t have fed his children chicken nuggets (quick, easy and never any waste). And I doubt he eats crisp sandwiches. Those things must push me much further up the working class ladder.

I reckon I’m a hybrid. My paternal grandmother lived in a smart suburb and would never be seen in a charity shop, while my maternal grandmother, who adored charity shops, lived in a terraced house in a street where people scrubbed their doorsteps.

This must explain why, when I’m ironing in the living room, supping cheap Chardonnay, I’m generally listening to Radio 4.