The Times Magazine 61I was eight, I didn’t go to school for a year
because I didn’t fancy it. I think my younger
sister took two years out.
By 12, I was aware we were the weird family
on the street. I’m sure we would have been
odd anywhere, but it was particularly acute
among all the blond highlights and shiny
shoes. I was pretty sure that my neighbours
did not get their hair cut in the kitchen, with
scissors that had recently been used to cut up
fish. They probably didn’t allow their pets onto
the kitchen table, where they licked the butter.
The air of dishevelment in our house was all
on purpose, cultivated by my anti-authoritarian,
secular, highly individual parents who thought
consumerism was the height of naff. How they
ended up in the Garden Suburb is a mystery- maybe they were seeking to destroy the
system from the inside.
Naturally, I rebelled and am crazy for a
scented candle and plush carpet. I’m never
happier than when driving to Brent Cross in
my extremely shiny car. Someone else cuts
my children’s hair. With clean scissors. I own
a cocktail shaker and a separate chopping
board for onions.
But however well you train a chimpanzee
to wear a dress, sit at a table and sip tea,
it’s still a chimpanzee. My bedside table is
a shameful jumble of clutter and whatever
I’m doing, I’d probably rather be lying on the
sofa watching TikTok videos; I sometimes let
my children stay in pyjamas and have their
iPads all day; I throw the majority of my post
away without even opening it. My cats jump
unchallenged onto the kitchen table.
There are other failures to “keep up
appearances” too, but I struggle to see how
they matter, as long as the children can read
and write, and the pyjamas they live in are
clean. I laugh at my husband when he’s fussing
about slightly broken things, muddy pawprints
or house keys left in the front door again.
“You don’t know anything,” I think. “You’ve
got no idea how bad it could be.” n