The Importance of Being Idle

I was thinking of a family story when I woke up yesterday, one of my favourites and never ceases to delight me. I’m not sure why I enjoy the story so much but I suspect it’s because it illustrates the stark differences between my parents so vividly. My father, a short-fused, A-type personality was a man who got things done, was always early for appointments and had no tolerance for anything or anyone that had a whiff of “idleness” about it. (I have put idleness in quotes because what he, and many others, considered to be “idle” in wartime Lancashire could easily include pausing to draw breath). I often think he would not do well with the current avalanche of self-care books available because he literally, would not understand the concept.

My mother, with both the appearance and temperament of a doe, could be anxious about a myriad of things and emitted a mild sense of melancholy for much of her life, but did not concern herself too much with timekeeping and always erred on the side of finishing one’s cigarette; cup of tea; Rye and Ginger; or Jack Lalanne on TV, before even thinking about making dinner or (can I say, idly) casting a few strokes of the vacuum cleaner back and forth.

But back to the story.

Early on in their courtship, my parents had arranged to meet. My mother was suffering a bad cold the last time they had seen one another so my father was waiting at the assigned spot, (half an hour early it must be noted) dapper in suit and sleek of hair, holding a tiny bottle of cough syrup and an armful of flowers. A full hour passed and he continued to stand, checking his watch, fretting, possibly stamping his feet to keep warm. Then he caught sight of a bus slowly chuffing up the hill with a lovely woman, smiling and dimpled in a “cheeky little fur hat” waving and blowing kisses through the window animatedly- as she went home to ready herself for the date …

I love this. I love the way my dad used to tell the story, incredulous every time, even after many years (“She was just on her way home!”) and then my mother interjecting, also laughing every time (“I wasn’t that late, don’t tell your lies!”) as if she couldn’t believe the fuss.

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