You might like to know that “1 in 6 British women aged 50-65 now know they can leave the washing up until the next day if I [sic] want to”, according to a recent survey on “women of a certain age”. That sounds rather an odd and pointless finding to me, because a) who cares? And b) what’s that got to do with being aged 50–65? You can do what you like about the wretched washing up, whatever age or sex you are, unless there’s someone bossy and obsessively tidy around, insisting that you wash up before you go to bed.
As Joan Rivers so sensibly pointed out, “I hate housework! You make the beds, you do the dishes and six months later you have to start all over again.” I’m with her on that. Although recently I found myself plagued with mice and so forced to wash up promptly, because if I left the weeniest trace of food out overnight, all draining boards and surfaces would be blanket mouse poo by the morning, and I do have my standards. But luckily the mice have completely disappeared, for no particular reason, so now I don’t have to bother.
Anyway “next day” is fairly mild. Why not longer? I can leave it for days on end, until I feel that all is chaos and I’m losing control of my world, and then I go for it – washing, scrubbing, tidying, until my home is transformed, the mists of my mind clear, and I see the possibility of a better life. Why bother with daily diddling? Let it build up and fester and then go for the transformative experience. Fielding does the same – days of neglect, and then a thrilling blitz, when he’s “in the zone”. And we have been like this for most of our lives, when no one else is supervising.
But some women of 50–65+ want to know more about the women surveyed. “Who are they?” shouts Olivia. “Are they fat, thin, rich, poor, royalty, on benefits, atheists, believers, married, single, working, retired? They can’t lump us all together!”
Oh, can’t they?
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