I have just wrapped my wedding anniversary present to my husband and hidden it under my side of the bed. I will thus be able to produce it tomorrow with the minimum of early morning effort. He will lie there all drowsy and suddenly – whoosh – a parcel will appear from thin air. I have even vacuum-cleaned under the bed so that the gift will not arrive in a cloud of fluff. I have secretly practised the required arm movements to achieve this feat of sleight of hand. My coordination early in the day is chancey.
He will be pleased with his new pyjamas. They are large without being gargantuan. I once saw ‘Extra Large‘ on a label and, mindful of the constant ricochet of bursting buttons, brought home the roomiest nightwear ever to come off the production line. He was hurt. He is big, but not that big.
What manner of wife is this, you may ask, who plans tomorrow’s presentation down to the last arm manoeuvre but who doesn’t seem to have any idea of her husband’s measurements? I would like to be able to say that I am all things to all men. (I would love to be able to say that.) In fact, I oscillate ineptly between wild enthusiasm and baffled despair.
I occasionally go to stay with an old schoolfriend. She is, quite categorically, the perfect housewife. She is well groomed, well organized and well adjusted. Her home sparkles. Her children are delightful. She does useful work in her community. She not only sews a fine seam, she makes her husband’s overcoats!
She has a Kenwood mixer and makes use of all the attachments.
‘Lemonade, anyone?’ she says, popping a lemon into the mixer and pressing a switch.
‘Works out at threepence a bottle,’ says her husband smugly whilst we sit, a few seconds later, sipping the most refreshing squash ever tasted.
But I think I’m most impressed by the way she cleans her cooker. Not just a quick wipe round when she thinks of it. Oh no. She unscrews it daily. Right down to its frightful entrails. With a gleaming little silver screwdriver attached to the wall by a gleaming little silver clip,
I could go on and on about this friend. Suffice it to say that she can sit all evening at her knitting machine and still look sexy.
Now why can’t I be like that? I do try, but no sooner am I launched on one project that everything else begins to pile up around me. The trouble is, that I am inclined to go to extremes.
If I decide to look glamorous I must become nothing less than a Marlene Dietrich, which takes time with my limited potential. And while I am upstairs doing lustrous things to my eyelids, the acres of Norwegian apple cake and miles of cheese straws I whipped up earlier in the day are slowly burning to a crisp in the kitchen. By the time I languorously trail down in my lamé, the inside of the oven looks like Wookey Hole Cave. It doesn’t need a screwdriver. It needs a chisel.
When throwing a children’s party I spend weeks creating donkeys with detachable tails and treasure-hunts of unbelievable subtlety. (All the guests really want is an unlimited supply of potato crisps.)
While these preparations are going on the house becomes festooned with cobwebs. We live in one of those old places full of character and dark places and our spiders are workers. So, mustering a great surge of energy, I tear round the house doing arabesques with mop and duster.
‘Right,’ I think, staggering kitchenwards. ‘Now to bake the birthday cake.’ And do you know, there are even spiders’ webs in the oven!
I used to say it was unlucky to kill spiders and would make endless trips outdoors with my gingerly outstretched dustpan. Now, keeping my fingers crossed, I track them down with a mallet.
Recently I did discover one splendid household hint which I gladly pass on to others struggling towards perfection. Namely, that if the floors throughout the house are kept really clean and shining, then everything else (except me) looks better. For weeks now I have been down on my knees applying layers of liquid wax and polish. The floors look lovely. The only snag is that for the next few weeks all my time is going to be taken up getting my knees back into shape.
Never mind. Tomorrow is my ninth wedding anniversary and somehow or other I must get the place tidied up a bit, cope with the children, prepare an extra special dinner, make myself a long knee-enveloping evening skirt, chase a few cobwebs and finish up looking like Marlene Dietrich.
With nine years of experience behind me, it ought to be easy. But I am not over-confident.