Open Writing

One of my favourite fantasies used to be compiling a long list of luxuries I would enjoy if somebody left me £100.

I even infected the children with this make-believe. During our ‘saving up’ periods we have worked this ‘let’s pretend’ in most of the stores, astonishing shoppers with, “Is that £50 or £60 we have spent now, Mum?” Naturally fantasies have to be adjusted like everything else, now £500 would be more acceptable to our immediate requirements.

I confess that spending money is one of my favourite occupations. One of the great joys in my life is to ride into town with a full wallet and spend an exciting afternoon emptying it. Of course to gain this felicitation one must first endure the interim period of saving and lusting.

That is why I sympathise with ‘Big Spender’ Viv Nicholson, and thank God I was never unfortunate enough to win £150,000. The televised version of her book ‘Spend, Spend, Spend’ had us realising how rich we really are. Money could not buy her the one commodity she craved – love. Never having experienced it, she was unable to recognise love when it lay under her feet in the shape of her first husband.

Describing his slavish attentions, she laughed at the way he accepted her brash ways and derided him for putting up with anything that made her happy. “Well, that’s not love, is it?” she asks pathetically. One thing is certain, Vivienne is a survivor and one day I hope she finds the answer and recognises it.

I have a weakness for ‘How to Succeed’ books which I have never been able to master. Last week found me trying to digest Mirabel Morgan’s threat to women’s lib, ‘The Total Woman’ – 188 pages on how to captivate your man. I am only half way through which makes me a sub-total at present.

The first chapter, ‘The Organisation Woman,’ has had me in its clutches for three full and extremely tidy days. Being the original ‘woman in a dressing gown’, this was aimed right at me. For the first time in my life I have been able to say ‘sit down’ without doing a removal job first. For three consecutive evenings the communal meal has been steaming on the table. All the family had to do was sit down and raise it to their mouths. For the same number of evenings they have all been unavoidably detained.

I am now suitably immersed in the ‘Happy Homecoming’ bit where wives are advised to put new life into teatime by donning a ‘costume.’ Anything will suffice as long as it is different. Be a pixie girl, a gipsy or even a showgirl, suggests Mirabel. Her initial experiment at home time featured a ‘Baby Doll’ outfit, her pink shorty pyjamas plus white boots soon had him playfully chasing her around the baked beans.

As I am struggling with a reluctant coal merchant at the moment who seems to be delivering my order via Alaska, my regular ‘costume’ of mountaineering socks, trousers and two of husband’s shapeless sweaters would best fit the description of ‘Eskimo Nell.’

While I love the idea of dressing up – ‘when he opens the front door make it like opening a surprise package’ coos Mirabel - I cannot help thinking the transition from Eskimo to Baby Doll may be too drastic for a start. No point in giving him heart failure before we reach the ‘Fizzle and Sizzle’ chapter.

Are the children ready for this costume period? I can imagine our teenage son’s comment if I open the door one day dressed like a pixie.

Determined to be a dedicated student though, I did the next best thing for a blustery March teatime. After the advocated, and I must say delicious bubble bath, I ignored my trouser uniform, donned a skirt, applied some make-up and combed my hair, then waited eagerly for the prophesied result. ‘Your marriage will begin to sizzle, etc.’

‘Where are you off to?’ was the first eyebrow-raised comment from the children. After tea my captivated beloved went straight upstairs and washed the bathroom ceiling. This book should do wonders for my spring cleaning. What do pixies wear these days?

Some males are more perceptive than others are. I realised how observant mine was when I first decided to rinse out my stray greys. Days later I felt his gaze on my ‘dark plume’ tresses. ‘Just stand still a minute, love,’ he said as he carefully rearranged my hairstyle. Then with a yell of triumph he pounced. ‘Grey hairs’ he cried as he lovingly amputated the few I had missed.

Some of Mirabel’s advice has to be slightly modified, like the suggestion of a phone call to the office telling hubby, ‘I crave for your body.’ Still if my coal does ever arrive I could need some help with the spadework, so I may just be making that call.

A good job I hadn’t succumbed to the pixie outfit, I mused the other teatime when I opened the back door to a handsome young telephone engineer. ‘Are you having trouble with your receiver?’ he asked as he fell over the dog. I looked around our unusually tidy household – so that was it – no distracting telephone calls.

Hoping it was something serious, I led him into the hall. Our daughter’s doll ‘Sweet April’ was perched on the telephone with the receiver balanced delicately on her lap. ‘Well it’s the first time I’ve come across anything so funny.’ Once again, I felt glad I hadn’t found a pixie shop.

There is a distressing side to the book. All the case histories supplied as bad examples sound just like me. It’s a miracle I still have a spouse.

If ever Yehudi Menuhin’s wife writes a book, I shall be the first to buy it. In a recent interview her violinist husband devoted his pleasures as ‘having a job to do like preparing a sonata or cooking something in the kitchen with my dear wife.’ As his wife left the room he whispered, ‘Isn’t she superb?’ She certainly must be. Definitely not the way Pierre Trudeau would describe his reluctant partner.

After a week of trying to be a ‘Total Woman’ I have come to the conclusion that what we femmes really need is an enterprising young homme to write a sequel called ‘Total Man’ with lots of heady advice to all chauvinists and ‘how to make your wife adore you’. I’ll buy that.