‘Hello Barbara,’ Emma says as she hauls the Hoover in through the front door. I can’t disguise my confusion. ‘As in Tom and Barbara. You know, from The Good Life.’
I don’t get it, at first. I still think of myself as this London chick — well, probably old broiler would be more accurate. But definitely a little bit urban and sophisticated. I can hold my own at a media dinner on Madison Avenue — at least I’m sure I could, if I hadn’t given up flying. Our house has all sorts of cool stuff in it. Hasn’t it?
I look around. There are sheets and pants hanging from a makeshift drying rack in the hall, which has seen heavy action since we gave up the tumble dryer last year. Across the way, a junior thicket of broad beans seems to have sprouted in the spot where I’ve always planned to spend afternoons reading on Granny’s old Corbu recliner.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in