‘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.
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