It’s been creeping up on me gradually, but now I have to say
something. I will start by asking a question:
Is there a competition going on that nobody told me about?
Maybe it’s because I remember the time when there were no
shops open on a Sunday, and neighbours mowed their lawns or read books or went
for a drive or did nothing. And that was perfectly fine.
Maybe it’s because I came from a family whose parents were
blatantly uninterested in career progression and more interested in constructing
a reading corner in our front room.
But people have just got a lot busier. It’s not just the
fact that women work full-time as a cultural norm [as well as running the home
in many cases (don’t get me started)] while their kids are still small. They do
this whether they want to or not just to pay the rent/mortgage. No, it’s not
just work. It’s extra stuff. We shoe-horn activities into our lives that before
we had no idea about: our options are overwhelming.
And it’s all because we can.
Way back in the dark mists of time, say 1975 when I was
newly married, I did all our washing on one day of the week in a twin tub. Not
everybody knows what a twin tub is. The washing therefore took all morning, one
load at a time, lifted from the washing half and dripped into the spinning
half. Then pegged on the washing line in the garden if it was fine, or draped
over a clothes horse or two by coal/gas/electric fires if it was raining. Then
it would have to be brought inside, or rotated round the fires, then folded and
put slightly damp probably in airing cupboards to ‘air’ or finish drying. This
took a whole day. So then I would make dinner, then clear up. Then go to bed.
The next day I would probably do ironing.
But today I stuffed a load into my automatic washing machine
on my way downstairs before I made breakfast, then stuck some vegetables in my
slow cooker for hot lunch as it finished. I took the load out and put another
one in, where it quite happily washed itself without any input from me, freeing
me up to go to the bank, the post office and do the food shop. And while I was
doing all this I not only had a wash washing, I had a wash drying in my tumble
drier. So when I got back I just folded it up and put it away. This happened
with two more washes that I could stuff in and out of machines while I did
something else. These are great time-saving devices.
But. Here’s the thing. I don’t save time. I don’t have a day off because all my work is done. I
don’t sit down and relax all evening because I don’t do the washing up after
dinner- my dishwasher does. No; I do something else. I go to private foreign language
classes, I go to college one evening a week, I got a degree, I work part-time,
I have two allotments, I have my eye on laying real floorboards down in my
kitchen [new house has carpet – who puts carpet in a kitchen?], I bought a
letterpress printer [well I bought two actually] just because I want to
letterpress my own work, I write articles and I have started knitting [specialist/designer/who
am I kidding] dishcloths, I bought chickens [Edith, Betty, Azubah and Hilda] and
I plant vegetables in my garden.
Everybody else is the same. When I try to arrange a get
together, it’s like pulling hen’s teeth. [I haven’t tried on my actual hens
obvs]. It’s like a competition to see who is the busiest. We all list the
things we have coming up like it’s a badge of honour for never having a free
evening to do ‘nothing’ with friends. ‘Oh, I’m all booked up that week, can we
try another evening.’ ‘Me too. I’m
absolutely up to my eyes. I haven’t
got a free evening for six weeks…’
I feel guilty if I am not busy. I should be doing something
with all the time I have saved.
Why?
Why can’t I sit and read a book, or watch TV or just enjoy
the sunset?
Apart from the Slow Food Movement, I’ve noticed something
called the Else Society – where members are doing something ‘else’ than run
round the hamster wheel and wonder where they are going. I might join...
So, Saturday we fly to Scotland for a week and I am proud to
say I will be doing nothing but eating, drinking and watching the flames crackle
in the log burner, with my first Terry Pratchett book lent to me by a friend. I
wonder what I shall make of it.
Saggy
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