Helping in the Home (1957-58)

IN the morning when I get up my first duty is to bring in a hod of coal. Once inside the coal shed I am changed from a sleep-drugged boy to an alert figure full of determination and self-will: I am Allan Quartermain buried in King Solomon's Mines, or the last miner alive, trapped by a fall in the roof, desperately fighting for my life. Ah what bliss, what heaven-sent outlet for my self-expression.

Reluctantly I go in to breakfast. But after the repast there is that godly occupation - washing-up! In this I find relaxation from my cares and worries. What pure, ecstatic joy playing sea battles with cups or seeing flying saucers from Mars landing in the suddy sea. Verily, I count the time I have spent over a washing-up basin the happiest hours of my life.

But I have not yet entered one sphere of domestic aid; that is the preparation of the family repast. Although my mother allows me to help her by fetching and carrying, I have never yet prepared one entire meal. This is a pity as I have been inspired to create several culinary masterpieces, such as fish and chips followed by lemon jelly with mandarin oranges.

After a few meals of this calibre my family would not hesitate to elect me as chef d'hôtel. Soon my menus would feature such things as boeuf bouillé aux carrots. Having sampled this patriotic fare my family would learn by heart "Rule Britannia," buy a Union Jack and emigrate to the U.S.A. So my family should see the bright future that lies ahead of them and place me in charge of the kitchen. And with this the apogee of my career of helping in the home would have been reached. 

J. INGERSON, 3A