Three times this morning my telephone has rung. Each time I’ve been asked the same question:
‘What does it feel like to be a lady of leisure?’
‘Well …’ I keep replying thoughtfully as I peel off my rubber washing-up gloves, put down the piece of wire I’ve been waggling about in the vacuum cleaner nozzle and/or switch off the steam iron.
The word has got around that I’ve left my part-time secretarial job.
‘And not a moment too soon,’ I think darkly to myself as I push back a few house-cleaning frontiers. Bookshelves bulge untidily, Venetian blinds squint smudgily and even the cat looks cobwebby. So I can’t honestly say that the term ‘lady of leisure’ strikes quite the right note.
So far, today has been about average. Early morning consciousness brings with it usual feeling of impending doom. Try to tell myself briskly that it’s just familiar low am ebb but make bleary, unconvincing job of bracing myself into keen, vertical position. Loiter palely on the edge of the bed. Allow myself just one theatrical sigh. Family no longer mutter ‘Wassermatter?’ They accept occasional hollow groans, sighs and small screams as normal punctuations of my early mornings. With toothbrush gritted between teeth I grab ancient, demoted sponge and make futile dabs at assorted toothpaste blobs and trickles around washbasin. Think, not for first time, why ever did we choose dark blue wall tiles? Look lovely when Min-creamed. But not often Min-creamed. Put Min and piece of old Viyella shirt at foot of stairs to remind me.
Also at foot of stairs waiting to go up: two jigsaws, blow football, wrong tie, Monopoly, one Scrabble letter, tall, wobbly Lego thing, half a pyjama, two plastic hair rollers and an interesting stone.
Enter kitchen. Cat has found piece of liver left in his bowl for surprise evening snack. Cat so pleased he has apparently arranged late night drag hunt around floor and worktops. Dried blood everywhere. Nasty start to day.
Daughter says she must have half a pound of sausage-meat, ditto best mince and two large firm tomatoes for tomorrow’s Domestic Science. Son says: ‘Where’s my other shoe?’ Son always saying things like this.
Argument now in progress over whose turn it is for Tom & Jerry joke machine, in cereal pack. Joke machines very popular but pantry full of half-full delved-into cereal packs. Allow myself smallish sigh and raised eyes.
Promise myself that today I’ll get some gardening done. Always something to be divided, thinned, pruned, fed or worried over. But enormous satisfaction derived from so doing. One of life’s pleasures to clump back indoors, peel off gardening gloves and gaze out of window at freshly-turned earth. While thinking this, go to window to gaze out at yesterday’s newly-planted tubs. Consternation. Cat decided all that lovely crumbly John Innes No 2 potting compost some new kind of ritzy dirt box. Yesterday’s efforts scattered far and wide. Cat bored with whole subject. Saunters off across main road. Brakes screech from all directions. Cat one helluva big fool. (Wonder if possibly I am dog person after all?)
Gulp down large mug of tea and feel life begin to flicker once more in veins. Wash kitchen, Min bathroom, distribute jigsaws, etc. Give usual perfunctory groan at state of children’s toy shelves. Make chickenwire lids for garden tubs. Sun begins to shine slightly and ’phone starts ringing …
Dash down to shops for daughter’s ingredients. Stagger back uphill and fix myself mid-day Ryvitas and cheese plus tangy Bulgarian salad I am crazy about. Listen in to Frank Muir and Denis Norden both of whom I am also crazy about. My day continues to improve as it goes along. There is a knock at the door and I answer it to a small suédy lady with a bulging clipboard.
‘Good afternoon, I’m doing a survey of attitudes towards savings and investments among people over – er – thirty-five, in certain professions. Would you mind telling me what your husband does for a living?’ Bemused, I tell her.
‘Oh well, I won’t trouble you any more. Good afternoon.’
I stand in the hallway, feeling slightly hysterical at the sheer, damned cheek of it. But it is funny. So I write it down on the blotter, to get it exactly right when I tell my husband.
Today he stamps in early, via the pantry as usual, grabbing himself a sandwich before saying ‘Hello.’ I wish he wouldn’t do that. I tell him about the survey lady and he is momentarily enraged at such blatant invasion of privacy.
But we have to dash off in the car to get petrol, collect the children and visit the launderette. At the petrol station I am enchanted by a sign which says: ‘Wheel Balancing While You Wait’. I wait but no cheery chap in oily overalls comes out and stands on tiptoe, balancing wheels, one above the other on nose and outstretched fingertips. Never mind, it’s a lovely entertainment idea and I for one certainly hope it catches on – it could replace green stamps.
Home again, I sort out the clean laundry, the children and the ingredients for the evening meal. The man from the shop down the hill arrives with our new hall carpet clasped in his arms – we unroll it and love its deep, rich pile, especially the cat who does three very perfunctory ritual turns before curling up and sinking into its luxurious shagginess. We all trip over him thereafter.
The Avon lady calls, in a sweet woolly hat, and we choose still more luxury from her catalogue. My husband looks cross and goes and makes himself another sandwich. I leap over the cat and dash guiltily to the kitchen sink, the vegetable knife, the saucepan …
The telephone rings. More cat vaulting. ‘Hello,’ says grandma above the hubbub of children’s telly, doorbells and hissing pans.
‘How does it feel to be a lady of leisure?’
‘Well actually,’ I shout, ‘I’m loving nearly every minute of it!’