BLOG 85: Undesperate Housewives

“The future became one of housewives dressed in flour sacks who stare all day dully down into dirty sinks.” Randall Jarrell Poet

Housewives are a much maligned breed. I mean what do they do all day that a working woman doesn’t do AS WELL as work? At least that was what I used to think, before I started this enterprise from my dining room (winter) or patio (summer). However, it is coming up to the year anniversary and I have to say that freed from the daily routine of rise-shower-dress-commute, I have spent more time in my locale than I ever have.

And stuff goes on here… stuff that must have been happening the whole time I was balancing on one leg on commuter trains. Stuff that must have been happening when I was trying to stay awake in meetings. Stuff that must have been happening when I was clawing my way up or sliding down corporate ladders.

I never gave a moments thought to anything that may happen back in the suburbs when I was out of them – because after all what on earth could go on of any interest that I was not a part of? Surely if there was anything going on I’d get to know about it! I suppose in my minds eye, seeing that half the neighbourhood seemed to be on the platform awaiting London bound trains, and the other half seemed to be in motor vehicles impatiently pushing through traffic… there was simply no one left to do anything more interesting than push leaflets through my door or burgle the joint!

It may well be human nature to assume that your own non-participation means nothing happens, but it’s far from logical. Human nature is not always a logical process.

I have no idea why I thought it all freeze framed at 07.50 only to unfreeze at 19.30… but I did. Or more accurately, I wrote off anything that happened in my absence as the business of housewives. And we all know nothing interesting or entertaining could happen unless it happened at work.

In fact it turns out – once the commuters have flown the coop…a whole new world springs into life, as entertaining, as interesting and as full of ritual, observances, and stages as any other.

At 08.00, suburbia enters the roaring stage of the day. It begins with a roar of engines.

Now these engines belong to off road vehicles that will never know the delights of churning dust clouds in the Kalahari. These four by fours will only know the tarmac and potholes of suburbia. But snicker not – for the drivers of these vehicles are as ferocious as any one may meet on the off-road circuit. For these are the mothers of primary aged school children.

These are women on the edge. Having survived the horrors of waking a small child or two and convincing them of the importance of daily hygiene and a nutritious breakfast – they are not to be messed with.

The front door opens, a well dressed and impeccably coiffured female strides out alone. She leaves the door open. She climbs into the cabin of her monster vehicle and starts her engine. Two plaintiff roars of the engine follow. Unfortunately – no child does similar. She disembarks the vehicle and stands in her garden and places both hands on hips. She remains a lone spectacle.

The manual roaring begins at 08.03. Children named for bottles of wine and far flung places are summoned with threats that often involve disembowelling. A solitary child appears in the doorway. The child is lead to vehicle and strapped in. The woman returns to her stance, hand on hip now joined by a fast tapping foot. Over the next two minutes, the threat of disembowelling is joined by those promising hanging, drawing and quartering to no avail. Finally the roar of “ WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE!!!” seems to summon smallies of various sizes who then are buckled into position.

At 08.06 the engine roars again. Then stops.

The woman disembarks the car. She roars that her children will be the death of her and re-enters the house. She returns to the car with forgotten PE Kits, Lunch boxes, and 18^th Century manor houses constructed from kitchen and toilet roll tubes and boxes of cereal.

A final roar and the school-run safari departs at 08.09.

Choking in the exhaust fumes of the recently departed, at 08.10 doors (including mine) open. The purpose of the door opening is simple. It is to toe out to the curb the attendees of the local secondary schools. Suburbia now enters the Banging Stage.

It is markedly noticeable that at this time the morning the owners of delightful teenage specimens are somewhat less groomed than the owners of the primary school aged version. It is said that this is because they are no longer charged with the responsibility of actually taking their off spring to school, therefore daily fashion parade of mothers at the school gate is no longer a duty. I say just as well, as these poor souls have an even harder task to raise their children from their sleep pits, get even the most basic of personal hygiene issues observed and get them dressed appropriately. It is most common for these children to have portable food due to the amount of time such battles take: thus any parent who makes it through the breakfast stage in house is awarded automatic hero status.

For these women, vigilance is everything. For secondary school makes the catwalk of the primary school gates look amateur. Whilst dressing to impress is usually encouraged the only problem is … school uniform dictates embellishments of any kind are forbidden. Therefore these dishevelled women have spent the better part of an hour convincing their offspring to get dressed, then the better part of the next hour convincing them to take something off.

There is little ceremony involved in releasing these offspring into their day. The door is opened, usually by an exhausted woman in a dressing gown. The teenager is launched through the open space, holding a piece of toast in one hand. And the door is loudly banged shut.

(Those like myself who have found themselves running down to the local co-op to buy missing household essentials soon after this phenomenon would have witnessed the toast munchers retrieving forbidden items that have been secreted about their person and putting them back on.)

It is now 08.30. Activity moves to the doors at the rear of the properties.

We have now entered the white cloud stage.

White cloud usually involves both types of parent. The secondary school evictions are complete and the school runners have returned.

Both open patio doors, step out and the sound of the clicking of lighters reverberate around the neighbourhood. A loud communal sigh rises to the heavens along with the first blissful calming lungful of tobacco ladened smoke.

Although smiles may be exchanged should eye-contact inadvertently happen… speaking is not allowed.

It’s all about the nicotine.

For many, it may well be their only cigarette of the day, having ostensibly given up smoking years ago. But no one holds this ritual in anything other than an appreciative light. The children have been dispatched to school. No one was killed in the process…though many came close. THIS cigarette was earnt.

There is a lull of external activity between white cloud and the next stage. This gives the mothers of the teenagers time for ablutions, the yummy mummies time to remove dangling earrings and heels and all time to catch up with Lorraine on GMTV and have a cuppa.

Now for those of us who work from home the stage that follows becomes a little tricky as it calls for some communal activity. Lord knows if we wanted that we'd go back to commuting! However it is less intense in winter, it’s not so bad as life tends to be conducted behind four walls. But from spring though to autumn… it’s a bit of a minefield.

It starts when the gardeners arrive.

My word that sounds bourgeois, doesn’t it!

But let’s face facts. Somewhere between 1980 and now, gardening moved from being a household chore to being a leisure activity. And the bad thing about that is when it comes to a leisure activity… there is ALWAYS someone much better than you. When gardening was a chore, paths were kept clear and hedges were kept clipped. You mowed the lawn… and if you were really fancy you had a few rosebushes and shrubs for a bit of colour. But somehow gardening became a leisure activity and people started ‘creating’. Suddenly gardens became high maintenance. Walk down any suburban street and look into the front gardens… you will seldom find two the same and most are full of plants not indigenous to this climate that require serious attention. So… unless you happen to be Charlie Dimmock or Kim Wilde… if you live where I live…someone does your garden, and it WON’T be you!

Now then, as I live in suburbia and not with the landed gentry, most of us on this road share a gardener. It’s cost effective. If they are in the area they may as well do three gardens per visit rather than one.

But this means talking to your neighbours… the most dreaded stage of the suburban day. It's all so stereotypical isn't it... conversations over the garden wall... no one likes being a cliché.

Actually, it’s not just those of us who work from home who dread it…we ALL do. Must do, as we all use the same method to keep this stage to the minimum. So this is why I call this stage… the WINDOW stage.

After Lorraine on GMTV has finished showing us all how to have really efficient lives by doing nothing more than watching TV (so much cheaper than a life coach is our Lorraine!), the very next move is to subtly open a window, patio door, or anything that will allow you to eavesdrop conversations that take place in back gardens.

This is ostensibly to hear when the gardener has finished at your neighbour so you can pop out and remind him that yours needs a look at. Whilst there is an appointment programme in place, somehow it is never trusted that the gardener will be able to make it from house to house unassisted. But also it is useful for those who have to let the gardener through to let him know you are in. (The extentions on some houses have completely blocked the side entrances).

Therefore, if you are not the first house he draws up at… you find yourself a task what will take you into the garden as a matter of course at the appropriate time. Spring through to autumn the hanging of laundry is always a useful subterfuge. In winter however, you just have to use your front windows and as soon as he is seen back near his van go out to 'post a letter'...so you can have a quick word.

I wonder if the poor man really does believe that women literally just pop up out of nowhere or if he sees through the performances for the rouse they are.

The window stage does have a natural pecking order. If Jean is having her garden done and is offering the third cuppa, you better get out there quick, cause it is unseemly for two neighbours to remind the gardener at once. Once you hear a third voice out there, you KNOW you have lost the next slot!

The etiquette is to be in the garden doing something purposeful once you hear the third cuppa being offered. Once innocently in place you turn to greet your neighbour. After three exchanges of information one may then enquire after the gardener’s health. Health update acquired you then let him know you are going out in an hour so if he wants to pop by yours after he finishes at Jean’s… you can let him through. There you go… you are in the next slot and you don’t have to waste your day waiting.

Which leads us to the next stage. Lunch.

It is the dream of EVERY working woman to be a lady who lunches. (LWL)

I can’t tell you how many rushed working lunches I have had, only to spy out of the corner of my eye a woman for whom lunch was a leisure activity.

Now I want to make this clear. Do not confuse ladies who shop with ladies who lunch. In suburbia lunch is a dedicated activity and has no need of distractions. (However - a SMALL purchase...ie must-have accessories... can be overlooked without a faux pas being committed). And despite appearances to on-lookers lunch is certainly not a daily occurrence. But above all Lunch is certainly NOT open to all who just happen to be at home.

It has been know for mothers who have a child under one year to be grudgingly included, but pre-school children are not. Lunch is the remit of the mother of the school-age child.

In my neck of the suburbs, lunch involves fantasy and a four by four.

The first ingredient is fantasy.

Lets face facts here – working from home is terribly short on intrigue. I’d love to tell you something amazing happened enroute from the kitchen to the dining room, or that I overheard some great gossip in the lounge… but really, I can’t. It’s kind of the same deal throughout my neighbourhood. The wives of local building merchants, bank managers and council officers seldom have occasion to dazzle while changing bedsheets or waxing the parquet. Work from home or stay at home.... all are rather outside of the cut and thrust.

So the first stage is to appear that your status is in fact a huge advantage. It’s almost like dressing for work.. but proudly wearing the badge that says “I answer to no one”. It certainly takes as much effort as dressing for work. (Some even miss out on watching Lorraine just to allow enough time to get it right). But it’s all about making a statement.. cool white blouse, flirty printed skirts, this seasons slouch ankle boots… and a bag that can sit proudly on the table. ( Don’t start me on waterfall cardi’s and chambray shirt dresses!!!) So finally there you are dressed like the weekend is 7 days long and you can afford it to be! Talk about fake it till you make it! – but there is more to the fantasy than what you are wearing.

Fantasy ingredient no. 2 is to dine in LWL spots.

LWL spots are places to lunch where the wage slaves can see you and envy you. These places are not expensive enough to be prohibitive, but are treats enough to attract wage slaves celebrating a birthday or a work goal, but will only be able to have the entrée as they have but an hour. There would be little point in a suburban housewife or homeworker dining at the Ritz where she would find herself envying the rich, the whole point of being a lady who lunches is to be envied because your day has not been sold to a boss. So… clearly NOT dressed as an employee and languidly taking opportunity enjoy the full menu it is. Zizzi, Sante Fe, and Ivory Rooms have all done very well from LWL trade.

The final ingredient is the four by four. This is for two reasons really. One… suburban streets are seldom located anywhere near a LWL spot… so someone will have to drive to get to one. Secondly and maybe more importantly...once the languid lunch that began at 12 is over at 3pm…. Someone has to drive like the clappers as the school ejections have begun!

And so we move onto the least joyful of the days events…the return.

And not of the Jedi either. The fruits of the neighbourhood loins have staggered releases between 14.45 and 15.50 (apparently to avoid fights between warring secondary schools.. but all it does is cause congestion as children from different schools wait for each other).

Should you not have been lunching, or working from home…chances are you may be in a local shopping centre. Then more fool you if you are thus located after 15.45. For the kids are coming home... well eventually!

A mooch around the local shops, finding mirth in the mundane and delivering reportage to each other at impossible decibels seems the number one choice. A secondary option would be to stand in circle groups on narrow pavements, oblivious to the fact this activity forces the rest of the populous into traffic. If all else fails sharing fast food on public transport whilst playing music loudly from the same devices confiscated by their parents that very morning seems a happy diversion.

It always strikes me as strange how the same sombre souls who trudged up the hills into school become a cacophonous swarm on the route down. The unbelievable raucousness alone is outstanding. But add to the noise the sheer energy that is dispelled onto the streets… delirious with the freedom that lies between the school gates and homework, they bounce homeward looking for any distraction that will stave of the enviable.

And so the spell of life between 08.30 and 16.00 ends abruptly.

The day for the stay at home and work from home continues much as it started, with the needs of children being tended to.

On a good day, the so called housewives of my street get up at 06.30, sort the kids out, get them to school, come back watch Lorraine, do the laundry, ask the neighbours 3 questions before letting the gardener through, they dust, polish, hoover, wash up, pick up and a zillion other chores, get to a LWL spot with a girls and back in time for school kick out. They then feed the kids, go through homework (and realise their kids know more than any adult ever will!). On that good day they’ll look at their watch and realise it is 18.30 and they’ve done 12 hrs. Well 9… it WAS a good day they had a three hour lunch!

And you know what… if you are reading this in your office... it's going on in your street right now. Good days like that one… and also bad days. I have witnessed so many of both over the past year I've been based in my own neighbourhood. And many more days like those went on the whole time I was self importantly sitting in my office moving scraps of paper about! A whole another world as valid as any other… full of rituals, observances and…

OH CRAP!!! While I was working on this… Carol (next door by 2) beat me into the garden to check on the gardener’s health!! Damn it!!! I’ll have to wait in all day now.

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