Like most kids I grew up in my parent’s house.
When I was younger my Dad would often say, “You treat this place like a bloody hotel!” I was never really sure what he meant, since the only hotels I’d stayed in were places like guesthouses in Blackpool, where the comparisons with Fawlty Towers were all too apparent.
My parent’s house was nothing like that.
We had jobs around the house as kids. Although we only occasionally cooked, we had to do the dishes every night. We had to wash the family cars, we had to clean our bedroom every Saturday (and that was a proper clean – with Pledge, and Jif and stuff. And the Hoover.)
If there was washing to do we would hang that out. And then bring it in and fold it.
We would take it in turns to cut the grass in the summer. And a couple of times a year we would pull up weeds from the borders.
I don’t recall having to do those things at any hotel that I ever stayed in when I was younger, so I really didn’t know what my Dad was on about.
At 19 I bought my first house. It was a two-up, two-down terraced house in my home town. It needed work and it was a bit shabby, but it was mine. (I say “it was mine”, but of course it really belonged to the Skipton Building Society, and if I didn’t pay them the agreed amount each month I would very quickly learn how little of it was actually mine!)
Living on my own was fine. I had to learn to cook, but this was the 1980s, so Pot Noodles had been invented, as had “Pasta ‘n’ Sauce”, and Findus Crispy Pancakes, so I was sorted.
And after my nightly culinary treat, I only had to wash up for one! Result!
Cleaning up a whole house as opposed to a bedroom was remarkably easy too. On my own I didn’t make too much mess, so it wasn’t a big deal. And in a bigger space there is more room to hide clutter, so that bit was pretty easy.
I had a yard, so no grass cutting.
The washing machine did the washing, so that was not really a chore. Taking it out and drying it was something I was used to.
So all in all, when I moved out I still didn’t understand what my Dad was on about with the ‘hotel’ remark.
Some time later I got a girlfriend and we moved in together.
In one fell swoop the cooking doubled, the washing up doubled, the cleaning didn’t double but the mess doubled so it took a bit longer, the washing doubled (actually, more than doubled – I couldn’t fathom why small women had to wear more clothes than large men!) but the thing is that there were now two of us to share these chores, so the amount of effort stayed the same.
At some point (many years later) kids came along. I have one of my own and then there is another that accompanied my partner. Both are boys. Both are 17.
They never cook, yet they eat like Pacman. They load and unload the dishwasher somewhat grudgingly. And once a week another plate or dish or glass gets chipped or broken.
The washing machine is seldom off, same with the dryer. The clothes that they wear seem to find their way from their bedroom floor to their drawers via the previously mentioned appliances almost by magic. And they wear more clothes than small women!
They have no idea what polish or cleaning products are. Dust is something they are happy to cohabit with. Mrs Doubtfire (the Eufy robot vacuum cleaner) takes care of the floor of their bedroom (and only occasionally tries to eat the underwear that finds it’s way under their bed!)
They arrive home from sixth-form utterly exhausted after 5 one-hour periods of study, and proceed to suck electricity from the wall like a Dementor sucking face in order to charge the myriad of devices that they need to be able to exist in 2024.
And they don’t look for anything. They ask me or my partner where anything they want is. So much so that I think my name is Alexa. But I should be grateful because other than that they barely communicate with us.
In short, they treat the place like a bloody hotel!
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