Fat chance

When I think back to my childhood, which I often do (maybe it’s my age!) I think about my parents’ lives then, not just me and my sister’s. My mum was only just twenty-two when she married Dad, which seems so very young, dad was twenty-eight, and that is somewhat of a gap but of course life was so very different then and it was only two years after the end of the war.

Back to Mum – she’d had to leave school at sixteen and get a job. In a way she and her elder sister were lucky to have been able to stay on to take their exams, their oldest sister went to work when she was fourteen. It was at work that Mum met Dad, although they got to know each other at the weekly dance at the Rex Ballroom in Cambridge. They lived in a bedsit owned by a rather unpleasant woman – their room was between her area and the kitchen, so she could go through their private space pretty much when she wanted. This wasn’t uncommon in those days, people even shared rooms with strangers,

Eventually they were able to move into a brand new two-bedroomed flat owned by a dear old lady who lived upstairs, who we called Aunty Gladys. This was where they lived when I was born, and then my sister, and we were there until we moved when I was fourteen. Although small by today’s standards, there was a good sized kitchen (a dining kitchen today!) ditto sitting room, two bedrooms, and a separate bathroom and lavatory. Mum, like most of my friends’ mothers gave up work to bring us up, although Dad was a very hands-on father. Brought up in a pub with very forward-thinking parents, he was used to cooking, cleaning, doing all sorts of chores and looking after the garden – growing all the vegetables we needed.

I didn’t realise at the time, because I thought we had everything – but everything we had was grown, made or cooked by Mum and Dad. I loved reading and had books, but not that many – there was a library less than a mile away! We didn’t have a car but there were seats for us two girls on Mum and Dad’s bikes, and we just cycled everywhere – and had our own (second-hand) bikes when we were older.

However, what I’m coming round to, is how terrible I am at housework compared to Mum. OK at the time our home was sparsely furnished, and she was looking after us girls, whereas now our house is more than fully furnished and we’re just looking after ourselves. Our downfall is that we have so much stuff! I can’t believe how much stuff we have, it’s ridiculous, but trying to throw it away  (charity shops and recycling) seems almost beyond me. I’m sure there is a dust machine hidden somewhere which pumps it out, because it seems that no matter how often I hoover there is just so much of it – yes, we live near the sea and the beach and we do get on-shore winds which blow sand etc into the house, – but dust, grey fluffy stuff, dust!

The truth is if we did housework more often, rather than sitting around writing, drawing, reading, painting, cooking, watching various things on TV, playing on our phones, messaging people, doing the crossword – having read the paper, abandoning the house and going on a mini-adventure (not to the Dolphin, that’s an evening adventure, and after housework hours)  then maybe the house would be cleaner and tidier… Actually, there’s fat chance of that ever happening!