The 1950’s Housewife.

She was born in the wrong decade, weren’t we all. I picture her standing in a polka dot dress, apron and oven gloves in front of an oven the size of a minibus. As she cocks one leg behind her in a coy fashion she pulls out a steaming tray of freshly baked cookies and a posh voiceover talks in my head like an old advert about new ways to improve the daily chores and American streamlining. She smiles and imagines quadruplets as her banker husband floats stocks and shares to pay for all the nappies. Her hair is tied back with a bow that takes years off her and with a bright yellow duster she wipes the frame that hangs proudly above the fireplace, the embroidery stitching inside spelling out for all visitors to see ‘I am sew lucky’.


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