Nearly a month has passed! I told you I was likely to be a bit faddy in my blog contributions.

Today is my first day back at work, after a fortnight off. I’m not a great fan of Christmas, really, though I’ve grown more accustomed to it in recent years. I absolutely love the Christmas holidays, though. I love the days and days on end of floating about the house. We get quite a lot of holidays, compared with most people, but we still tend to use them either for concerted decorating efforts, or for going away. Christmas is the only time that I spend reading, watching the telly, going to the park, being in control of the washing up, and generally wishing I could live like this all the time.

I have read quite a lot, in my time, about the terrible frustrations of being a Victorian/Edwardian woman, with no opportunities to earn, and nothing to do all day. The Yellow Wallpaper was written as a comment on such a situation, although it’s really about the bizarre practice of treating the terminally bored with bed-rest, and wondering why they don’t seem to improve. I can see that being actively forbidden any kind of intellectual activity must be terribly demoralising, but I think the feminists of earlier generations, who fought long and hard for the right to hold jobs and earn money, were MAD. Quite, quite, crazy. The generation before them were entirely supported by the salaries of male relatives, and because that was the norm, a good standard of living could be achieved on such a salary. In return, the women ran households, but didn’t have to do any hard work in them, bore and raised children, and read. And in some cases wrote. Why can’t I do that?

Instead, I have to accept that my standard of living is entirely based on our DINKY status (Double Income, No Kids), and that there is no escape towards a gentler pace of life, without a significant reduction in household income. Kevin’s money can’t keep both of us. The cost of life in the 21st century makes assumptions, and it assumes that we can bring home two salaries at the end of the month. I’m trapped. But only for the next forty years.