I was watching "Gardeners' World" the other day. A very posh lady was showing the presenter, Joe Swift, round her lovely garden in Somerset. They ended the tour at the opposite end of the (enormous) lawn from her (enormous) house. She was telling him how much she loved her planters - and they stopped beside an (enormous) stone urn overflowing with flowering plants.
"And this is the most important one," she said, "because when I die, my heart's going to be buried in it."
I don't know whether he's just a good actor - Joe Swift is, after all, the son of the actor Clive Swift and the novelist Margaret Drabble - but his eyes widened in apparent shock. (Huh? Yuck!)
You really have to imagine the lady's exceedingly posh, drawling, English accent. She went on, "I've asked the butcher" (oh no!) "but he won't do it." (Pronounced "wayoooon't dooooo it".)
She gave the teeniest of posh, you-can't-rely-on-the-working-classes shrugs. "So my son will do it."