Look, don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are posh girls. I’ve got drunk with posh girls and worked side-by-side with posh girls, so when I say Fleabag (both series available on BBC iPlayer) is for posh girls, that isn’t a criticism; Fleabag is a work of undeniable genius. But it is for posh girls. It just is.

Fleabag is posh, and so is her creator Phoebe Waller-Bridge (private school-educated, descended from titled nobility on both sides), and that’s totally fine. You don’t have to identify with TV characters or find them likable in order to love the show they’re in. Few of us are Northern Irish schoolgirls or American presidential candidates or waistcoat fanatics, and that doesn’t hinder our enjoyment of Derry Girls or Veep or Line of Duty.

However, Fleabag is a different case, partly because she so insistently invites the audience to relate – she’s literally turning to us and winking knowingly every few minutes – but mostly because so many did relate, and so fervently. Since series one, the “OMG! Is me!” sentiment has dominated Fleabag conversations online and in person, and drowned out the sheepish minority who feel otherwise.

Of course, it feels great to be so seen – yay, posh girls! – but when Fleabag is being celebrated as women’s Authentic Experience finally given voice, then it’s time to call bullshit.

Fleabag is not “women”; she’s just that particular subsection who already make up the majority of women in public life, anyway. Even Fleabag’s emotional pain – as tenderly written as it is – isn’t universally relatable. Rather, her family are f-ed up in exactly that way that gives posh people something to write plays about, and gets other people visits by social services.

None of this makes PWB’s achievement any less admirable, her acting and writing abilities any less impressive. But it does, sometimes, make her show a little less lovable. Not for want of trying. You want to listen attentively to Fleabag’s latest anal sex anecdote … then she turns into a front garden and it’s: “Christ! Her dad’s house is massive!” Or you’re moved to tears by a scene of sisterly bonding … before the sister casually drops in her million-pound promotion and it’s: “Sorry, she’s making how much before tax?!”

I wouldn’t want Fleabag to be constantly acknowledging her privilege; that’s hardly the stuff of Bafta-winning comedy. Indeed, I wouldn’t want Fleabag to change a hair on her adorable head. But let’s just note that there’s another sort of privilege in being able to enjoy the many wonders of a much-hyped TV show without the chip on your shoulder getting in the way.

It’s not just accents either. It’s there in the unexamined fact that Godmother gets to actually be an artist without also having to take on a telesales side hustle. Or in the way every party, even a casual family get-together, is champagne-catered. It’s especially there in the final fourth wall break, Fleabag’s sad smile to let us know she’s heartbroken, but she’s going to be OK. Because, of course she’s going to be OK – have you seen the size of her dad’s house?!