The joke has always been that I am a 1950s housewife. My
love of baking, sewing, cross stitch and other crafts that were out of date
even when my mother was young is legendary: Scarves , thick and long with wide
ribbing and wider coloured stripes, can be seen sported by long-suffering
friends all over the country; Hats that make any wearer instantly resemble
compo have been a long standing Christmas present; and my boyfriend speaks of
my carrot cake in the same way Lucy Liu made men speak of s.e.x…
But here I am, sitting at home on the first day of the rest
of my life with no job to speak of except the ones I create for myself around
the house.
This was not the plan.
It was also not always the case. A few years ago I was a
Primary Teacher, but having taken a year out to broaden my mind with a MSc in
Anthropology I now find myself no longer a student, nor a teacher, nor anything
in fact. I am, for the foreseeable future, an unmarried housewife.
With the dissertation handed in on Friday, today is my first
day of official unemployment. The student bliss of the Masters is behind me. The
future is full of job applications and d.i.y.
The day begins with a quick shop in town where I discover
that a joint of silver side beef is pound for pound cheaper than the cheap
sliced ham. A bargain, I decide and follow up my thrift with a couple of loaves
of bread, one white, one brown. The white is a ‘treat’ for A, as it is on
offer. As I walk off thinking how I’m going to have to remind him not to get
used to such luxurious food choices I wonder when I became so like my mother,
and when her skills of organisation and petite waist will follow her traits I
have so far taken on, like giving advice the hearer already knows and the
inability to keep such advice from escaping my mouth.
I am now sitting at
home wondering what the rest of my life will bring… so far this is what I have
ahead of me:
-
Take the bins out
-
Clear out the car
-
Unpack from the weekend
-
Apply for jobs
-
Sort out plants in the garden
-
Do the washing up
Not quite the career I had expected for myself at the age of
27.
As I flick the black bag open to empty the bins a splash of unidentified
cupboard juice hits my face. I just hope that was water. Bins done I straighten
the bed, collect the various glasses from last night (red wine: how civilised, rum
and ginger beer: less so) and pour the fizzy plum gloop that would have been
jam if I had been more organised last week into our wormery.
While preparing dinner (thinly sliced leeks and onion with
sweet potato roasted with pork) I survey my days work: Jobs applied for: 2,
loads of washing hung to dry: 2 (as is clear by the colourful bunting of my
knickers adorning the steel beams that cross our living room), cupboards
cleared: 2, strawberry runners potted: 4, Blogs begun: 1
A productive day?
