Open Writing

Did you ever hear the Goon Show episode where someone bursts noisily into a room and an outraged George Saunders-type voice protests ‘How dare you burst in here, this is the living-room?’

The implication that someone has had the nerve to explode all over the carpet is certainly amusing, but judging by the photographs in some magazines, living-rooms are definitely places to be found dead in.

Their fictional build-ups of elegant lifeless dining-rooms, spotted with ubiquitous and wire-less, yet magically lit reading lamps, the gleaming polished halo complete with candles and cut-glass surrounded with symmetrically placed dining chairs – leave me gasping in wonder.

It is like trying to solve a ‘find the missing article’ puzzle in a children’s quiz book.

Where are the pump bags? Are there really sideboards without an ornamented display of this week’s homework and last week’s flowers? No switches, no newspapers – in fact no life! Are all those coffee tables really necessary? And what happens to the jardiniere when dad walks in reading his newspaper?

I suppose it is really a question of values. Do you prefer a house or a home?

Unfortunately I can never work up enough enthusiasm to dedicate myself fully to unresponsive objects like houses and furniture. It has always been a lukewarm relationship. I find the human element more satisfying.

Pretending to spring clean, I find the newspapers I line the drawers with more interesting than the job in hand. Having spent most of my working life under pressure, I can easily make three school skirts the day before a new term starts, or clean the house from top to bottom the morning our guests are expected for tea. But I find it very difficult to clean the front step because it’s Friday or to wash the clothes because it’s Monday.

I envy the pedantics who care enough about paint scratches to be stood by, ever ready with paint and touching up brush, who cannot bear to be parted from the ironing board, however urgently the sun and the children call. They will always be dearly remembered for their domestic prowess: ‘She never sits down you know. You could eat your dinner from her kitchen floor.’ At least this will never be my epitaph! I should regard it as complimentary as ‘She would have been a good singer, if it hadn’t been for her voice.’

My family will not retain many memories of my hygienic feats, but I hope they will remember the happy days we spent fishing for tadpoles, visiting museums or just picnics on the canal bank.

Another missing article is the family pet, not even a budgie! Mind you animals can be allowed too much freedom. Accepting a lift once, three daughters and me had to share the back seat with a giant dog, that didn’t look too happy about the idea. While I was struggling desperately not to sit on its knee, our driver was nearly breaking his neck watching that out toddler did not rest her new sandals on the car seat.

I often wonder what it would be like to sink my ten stone into the pale upholstery of the enormous settees depicted in the ‘glossies’ – instead of making a mad dash to reach the left cushion which balances on a dodgy spring and lets you down almost to the floor – before the guest. Actually it becomes quite comfy, after a while you almost forget you are a few inches lower than her. That is why I probably didn’t notice the broken bus seat I sat on recently. It was only when I waived at my friend and she didn’t recognise me that I realised my seat was so low down all she could see was a pair of brown eyes peering over the window ledge and a hand waving frantically.

Putting the family first does have its drawbacks. One summer during a halcyon existence of picnics and leisurely rambles my son turned round and accused me of leading a workless life. He imagined the flexible and relaxed routine that I adopted especially for his benefit during school holidays was an indication of my regular lifestyle! An attitude he maintains to this day.

Naturally it helps to have two handy men. They can design and build a guinea pig home with two bedrooms, dining area leading to sun lounge, in one afternoon. Of course inside jobs, like replacing faulty door handles and painting the rest of the bedroom door requires years of careful planning.

I have resolutely trained myself to believe that the state of the house is secondary to the welcome shown, and hope this disguises its shortcomings. But the old homestead doesn’t look too bad when everything is in its place.

The dog covering the worn patch on the hearth rug, my slippers hiding the gap between carpet and fireplace, and what stately residence does not benefit from a few seasonal touches like the faded Christmas bauble still hanging from the front-room ceiling or the various cards our youngest can’t stop creating, which she replaces faster than I can destroy.

Long ago when I still believed that problems were the thing ‘Auntie Audrey’ solved on the back page, we spent long evenings worshipping the monthly journals and planning our perfect retreat. But four girls and a boy, two tame mice, one wild dog, a guinea-pig and a continual stream of mates has helped me overcome our materialistic ambitions.

I was brought up with the idea that an open house is a happy house. Anyone who stayed at ours longer than two minutes was entitled to a cup of tea, my mother’s cure for all ills.

Consequently it was always full – and the kettle whistled eternally. The day war broke out my aunt arrived with two cousins and a large suitcase to stay until it ended. After three weeks of hilarious fun with our cousins, she got tired of waiting and we all had to wave a tearful goodbye.

No, don’t come to our house if you are expecting a magazine layout. Otherwise come in, move the books, take a seat and I’ll just pop the kettle on.