13 March – On Everyday Magics

The weekend before last was heavy with mundane magics. 

Now, those who know me could surely attest that domestic would not be an accurate qualifier for goddess, if they were to describe me thus (though I will happily, if unfairly, accept the goddess part).  In the past, it was not simply that I did not take pleasure in domestic tasks, but that I wasn’t good at them, and while I knew they were important, I didn’t quite understand that I had to do them.   A substantial part of my mind seemed to be waiting for Brownies or some other breed of helpful elf to step in and take over.  I now take a good deal of pleasure in the acts of cleaning and tidying – but in a very whistle while you work, bluebirds on your shoulder, playing house sort of way.  Whatever gets the dishes out of the sink will do.

Now that I am settling in to my happy new flat, I must say that I’ve been taken quite unaware of how enjoyable it is to keep one’s home in England.  It has a great deal to do with the products available.  The cleaning supply aisle at my local Waitrose is delightful.  In the US, cleaning supplies are marketed to be weapons in a well-stocked armoury for the war against grime and filth and germs.  It is a war that can never be won, and yet, we battle away hoping that 99.9% of bacteria will be felled with a squirt and a scour, that the insidious threats of salmonella can be quelled under an attack of whatever corrosive we pack, that air will be ionized and purified by puffs at regular intervals from whichever member of the Febreeze family of products we’ve plugged into the wall.  We spend much of our lives convinced that our very homes are out to kill us and that they have teamed up with the micro-organisms that are quite determined to inherit what is left of the earth ahead of schedule.

Presently, I have no imposing pirate in my cupboard nor some hapless sailor in my WC, but a lovely assortment of eco-friendly and non-eye-stinging tools in my adorable tin housekeeping box.  I could even choose to let the Fairies I’d longed for get to it.  The packaging here is light and the pretty coloured liquids delight like so many rainbows.  Even my peg bag and ironing-board cover are charming enough that I’d happily take seven or so little men under my care, just so that I would have more to do.  I’m a frilly apron and petticoat away from becoming a fantasy 50s housewife*.

The laundrette too was a revelation.  I have a washer, but no dryer (thus the peg bag).  This is fine for many things, but towels should be fluffy, and fluffy doesn’t happen on a line.  I had to seek out a laundrette.  They are rare animals indeed.  At first this was so very strange to me, as in New York – especially in Brooklyn – you can hardly go ten steps without a laundry or twenty ready to gobble your quarters and socks.  As it was too far to walk, I loaded up and rode the 211 bus to Fulham Palace Road where I found the most magical little laundry-mat ere I could have imagined.

It sits on the corner and beckons with an orange sign, circa 1967.  The machines are a bit dated, but big and efficient.  The part that took my fancy had nothing to do with the mechanics, but with the man who runs it.  Instead of finding surly drones trapped in Plexiglas boxes or harangued mothers diverted by separating not just whites from colours, but their children from mischief, here was a person who absolutely sparkled.  Though his ear seemed sealed to his mobile phone and he engaged in animated call after call, still, when I entered, I was met with a jolly greeting and wave as if I had stumbled upon a long-lost friend.  When my machines were filling and spinning, he suggested a sweet café where I could find some breakfast and a rather good cup of coffee.  When I came back to switch to dryers, he had put two aside for my convenience and pink baskets sat upon my washers, ready to be loaded and toted.

There were many more clients by then.  Other than me, they were entirely of two groups: small, elderly women and large single, forty-something men.   He chatted with each of them and was the person each of them needed him to be. To the women, he was a kind, flirtatious voice, and he treated them like queens, when perhaps they’d reached a point in their lives when few take time to give them much attention or admiration.  To the men, he was a boisterous pal who happened to be handy with detergent.  There was solace there.  It is a most special place.

Less dreamy wonderland and more spectacular technology – I am recently the proud mummy to a Roomba.  I’m sure you’ve seen the commercials, with the spinning robot vacuum navigating corners and sucking up dust bunnies under couches.  Of course, they’re cute and all, but if you’re like me, you questioned how well they could really work.  I had not planned on buying one, but whilst at Peter Jones, I came to remember that I had neither a car nor a driver’s licence, and I did not look forward to heaving an enormous and weighty Henry onto the bus.  I couldn’t be more pleased with my new pet.  Run out right now and get yourself a Roomba.  I believe there is a mopping version in the US, but I’ve not seen that here – I would buy it in a heartbeat.

The Roomba is more than an appliance, much more.  It is an excellent vacuum, this is true – however it also sings little songs and spins around – it even stops itself from going over the edges of steps.  It bumps into furniture and walls like an errant puppy, and with trial and error and ever more bumping finishes its task and sings you a goodbye.  If only all electronics had so much charm, I would gladly give up my latent Luddite tendencies**   

So we’ve come to the end of my tales of expatriated domestication.  I’m impressed with your patience for such a subject.  Till next time, then, when I will regale you with tales of the Queen and Gypsies and some rather excellent museums. Ta.

*Okay, okay – I have employed a bit of hyperbole.  Let it be.
**Of course, I’m more of a theoretical luddite – one who enjoys indoor heating, electricity, and can’t imagine writing and filing everything in triplicate; a 21st Century Luddite, if you will.