Making Do
This morning while doing what passes for a quick clean of my kitchen with paper towels and disinfectant spray I was thinking about the house maids in “Downton Abbey,” which I’ve been rewatching recently.
When I view the excess that attends the lives of the Earl of Grantham and his family I feel disgust laced with envy. How dare they consume all those resources for just one family (a family of two parents and three daughters, exactly the size of my own)?
But then, quick on its heels, this rueful observation: Wouldn’t it be nice if I had a cook, a gardener, a chauffeur and a scullery maid?
My house is seldom spic-and-span. It’s tidy, but not scrupulously clean. Long ago I realized that in order to raise children, write and bring in some income, standards would have to slip. And slip they did.
Now I have more time but I’ve learned to live with stains on the carpet and smudges on the walls. Truth to tell, if a crew from Downton Abbey were suddenly to offer its services, I might have to think a minute before I said yes.
