CURTAIN CALL 

We live in an Edwardian semi. It is lovely but draughty. Over the years we have blocked up fireplaces, insulated the loft, hung thicker curtains and made or bought draught excluders (or giraffe excluders as they are known here following a toddler’s misunderstanding of what I once said). 

Despite all this we often felt as though we sitting in a howling gale when the wind was blowing in a certain direction. And so it came to pass that I finally agreed with the OH that the windows in the front of the house should be replaced by ones that looked similar but were double-glazed. 

The upstairs ones were finished in the autumn. The OH decided that the wooden sills that were still in place needed ‘making good.’ Then he decided that, while he had his painting and decorating hat on, he would also redecorate my study. As readers of this blog may already know, he likes a project. It keeps him busy. 

One wall of the room was covered in bookshelves containing hundreds of books. Half of another wall had shelves where I kept my box files – tax stuff, accounts, birth certificates and so on. I wondered whether it was necessary to paint areas that were hidden by books and files but he was determined to ‘do the job properly’.

It took quite a while to clear the room and boxes (filled with books, files, photos and so on) started to take over the landing and other rooms upstairs. Work began but came to a stop over Christmas. 

After the festivities work eventually resumed. I tentatively asked when it would be finished. Friday, I was told. I am long enough in the tooth to take any tradesman’s estimate of a finishing date with a pinch of salt. I guessed the middle of the following week. 

So here we are. I am typing this on my computer which has been set up in the dining room. I have been allowed to unpack most of the boxes of books but I cannot yet access my box files. Meanwhile the master craftsman is wrestling with curtain rails and has yet to put back the door he removed to sand down because it stuck on the newly laid carpet. 

And I am trying to stick to my New Year resolutions. Be kinder. Be patient. Only now I have to help put back the curtains …

 

Looking for Mrs Tiggywinkle

When I was little, the Tale of Mrs Tiggywinkle was one of my favourite Beatrix Potter books.  I didn’t care much for Pigling Bland or Jeremy Fisher but the prickly little washerwoman with a kind heart appealed to me. I have never, however,  at any age, found much to like about laundry.

I remember having to wash so much by hand in the days before twin tubs and tumble dryers. But worse than the washing was the ironing. Now I know that some people enjoy the process of unwrinkling wrinkles, smoothing out collars and cuffs, pressing in pleats. Not me. Even if I try ironing while listening to the radio, it is a chore I just want to rush through as fast as possible so that I can go and do something more interesting. 

I also associate laundry with Women’s Lib – so much so that washing and ironing have sometimes been the Scylla and Charybdis of our marriage.   In fact I still remember my pique and disbelief when, during my first maternity leave, my other half asked me to iron his shirts on the grounds that I was at home and he was at work. 

Although I occasionally complied rather resentfully, as soon as I was back spending my days doing a job for which I was paid we reverted to the previous arrangement whereby I ironed my clothes and he ironed his. 

As the years went by the family expanded. By this time we were both earning more and we agreed we would spend some of the extra income on a laundry service. Once a week a man came round and collected the shirts and dresses and tablecloths and whatever else was too creased to be used again without being ironed.  

I failed to persuade the other half that the newfangled non-iron shirts were a godsend - although I bought no other kind for the children’s school uniform ever again. And I mostly stopped buying myself anything that couldn’t be machine-washed, tumble-dried, hung up and put straight away. 

Time passed.  The ironing man retired. We retired. True, there are fewer cotton shirts to be ironed now. But the other half now mostly wears cotton tops of the kind that can’t go in the tumble drier because they shrink.  I wash them, and let dry them on hangers in the utility room. Sometimes he washes them and does the same. So far so fair.  But they still need ironing. 

Anyone know where I can find Mrs Tiggywinkle?