What to do today? Ah yes, finish putting the weatherstripping on the front door. I’ve been at it two days already but today could be The Big Day. I may even finish it.
I come from a culture where women generally didn’t do “those kinds of things”. Women did the cleaning, the cooking, the washing up and the shopping, ordered the turkey at Christmas, paid the bills, remembered birthdays, bought, wrapped and delivered cards and presents, took their home baking to the neighbours and made dresses and cardigans for the whole family and looked after the children. Or like my mother, they went out to work – and did all of the above. But not “those kinds of things”. She was lucky – her mother lived with us and worked endlessly for the family too. She didn’t do “those kinds of things” either. Men did them. If a woman lived alone, single or widowed, she would probably have A Wee Man she could call on to insulate the attic, fix a broken window, replace a door lock or change a tire. Or perhaps even to put a plug on the new radio.
“My daddy’s an Esso Man. What does your daddy do?” my friend asked. “My daddy’s a Scottish Boiler” I replied, and looked at her. She looked back at me, puzzled. “What’s that?” I didn’t really know. “He takes us to school every day” I offered, but she didn’t look like she understood that any more than I did.
I was getting warm though (if not as warm as a Scottish boiler). He did work for a company we called Scottish Boiler but he didn’t seem to have anything to do with boilers. He was an electrical engineer who inspected wiring in factories and did his paperwork at home. Like the dentist who doesn’t notice that his own family have cavities, or the gardener who has to slash his way to his truck with a machete while his wife calls “you will cut the grass when you come home, dear won’t you?” he didn’t feel called upon to demonstrate his skills at home. In those days UK wiring was a complicated business and we had a variety of electrical sockets in the house, old, new and in-between. Appliances didn’t come with plugs already attached. You went to the hardware store and bought your own, along with the correct fuse, after which you would wire it for the appropriate socket.
Electrical tasks in our house were of course left to my father, who would veto any attempts I made to learn how to do things for myself, clearly terrified that I would burn the house down or kill myself. “Can you show me how to wire up this plug?” I would ask as a teenager. “Everyone in my class knows how to do it except me!”
“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” he would declare. “Here, give it to me.” I would disappear to play my guitar and come back later to find two of the three wires stuck into the socket with matchsticks. Unfortunately he failed to realise that I would copy him, which I frequently did. A little knowledge is indeed a dangerous thing!
2015-10-17
The vagaries of old British plugs and sockets can be seen here if you’re interested:
http://www.plugsocketmuseum.nl/British-plugSocket_history.html
The Blethering Ant 