The Lady with a Duster , A Mind Refreshed, The Highway, July 1947 I am a worker, and in that sphere which

is so often overlooked the home. I am also an educated worker, and because of my two sons, to say nothing of my innate love of learning, I wish to remain so, or at least to do my utmost in that direction. Many will appreciate the fact that, for a wife and a mother, there is very little finance to spare for extras which, of course, education, or indeed relaxation of any kind, must be deemed at this stage in ones life. I would find no joy in depriving my children of opportunities by selfish spending, therefore I naturally turn to WEA for my outlet. This all sounds very serious, but I am coming to the lighter side. For my class I have chosen Economics. I have a friend in an important post in a banking firm she goes to a cookery class in her free time. The mere thought of a make-doand-mend or cookery class makes me turn pale. Thus, I presume, does instinct balance our lives! My class is on a Monday, of all days! How I ever get there, and the building is down a long, horrible road where it is always cold or wet or foggy or windy, still remains one of this worlds miracles. In preparation I spend every evening (towards midnight!) in the perusal of world affairs with added concentration, in order to digest the matter well, over the weekend. All is, however, continually thrust to the back of my mind by the fact that I must remember that there will be oranges on Monday, and if I fail to be there in time I shall miss the allocation, the same direct uncertainty hangs over the babys eggs. What are my husband and schoolboy son to take for their lunch as the joint has petered out? I must not forget to open the back gate, or the dustman, already a fortnight overdue, will not be able to get in and so on ad infinitum. Every dawning Monday is, in all well conducted households, washday, even if one does employ the uses of a laundry later on in the week. If one is an ultra-efficient housewife, the ironing too is done before nightfall, but as I have the excuse of an over-energetic toddler, that possibility is always waived in my establishment. I begin the day by clearing up my husbands week-end untidiness, mainly caused by doing odd jobs to help me. Naturally as fast as I clear up my small son sees to it that Satan shall, at least, find no work for my hands. I then turn to the delinquencies of my big son, making mental notes all the time that I will train him to be more tidy, and that I must change his school as I feel it lacks discipline. Thus the day wears on and I wear out, until my schoolboy returns full of school and loving home. Tea over and the baby mothered and bathed, looking as though he could never have committed all those crimes, I pop him into bed, trying hard to recall the whiles something of Current Affairs and of the principles of Political Economy. Now to try to disguise the horrid truth that I am a harassed

housewife, whilst my elder son dances up and down the garden path to see whether my husband is going to arrive in time for me to catch the bus. He has never failed me yet, and with last minute orders as to what is for supper, what time my son must retire, how carefully he must do his homework, and that there must be not reading in bed after a certain time I am off! In the bus I try to relax and to collect my thoughts. Then I am there, and in my element for two hours, though the world would say, I suppose, that I had left my element behind me. The return bus I generally catch with my face burning with the fire of interest. (The last class before we broke up for Christmas was so allabsorbing that we forgot to wish one another a Happy Christmas.) Once within my own front door again, I immediately carry on where I left off, at the same time arguing the evenings topics with my husband. First I dash upstairs to see two sleeping boys, the elder of whom sometimes opens eyes and lips just wide enough to ask, How did Ekkers (schoolboy slang) go, Mummie? It is a lovely feeling to have got away from household ties for a time, and to know that the family is interested too, even if my husband does sometimes sarcastically suggest that I should take some sock-mending along with me! It is also good to know that, as the boys grow up, they perhaps will not consider their mother such a nonentity after all, even if she does spend much of her time at the kitchen sink. When I was at school many years ago I enjoyed books by The Gentleman with a Duster; I sign myself very humbly and apologetically, and, I feel sure, much more truthfully, as his female prototype.