Last night, I became frustrated with a friend. He has been brought up, in his own words, in a chauvinistic family, and couldn’t understand how I, a self-confessed domesticated woman, could find issue with that.
Yes, I cook. Yes, I clean. Yes, I sew. Yes, I do the washing. And yes, I look fabulous as I do it.
Strangely… I don’t do those things because P expects me to.In fact, as with most women out there, I do those things because I want to. I want to care for him and do things that benefit us both. Trust me, there are days when I hurumph about cooking and ask him to do it, or we get a takeaway. So I’m not stating I’m some sort of domestic martyr. I’m almost the opposite.
My mother, whom I like to descibe as a volcano, is force to be reckoned with. She has helped shape my temper and they way I deal with life and people on a day-to-day basis. I have grown up knowing who I am, and what I want. I don’t need to disappear around the world to find myself, maybe on a nice holiday perhaps, but I know who this Pigeon is.
My father, as with most women, has shaped the sort of man I look for in a boyfriend. My father can cook, he cleans, he sews and he can take apart an engine with his hands and put it back together again. Most of all, he could cope if my mum was away on a trip or ill, and when they divorced, he was more than able to look after my brother and I, despite being in his wheelchair. All in all, he set the bar pretty high. You can see in the picture below, the shed he built with his own hands, that survived the wind of 86, where our neighbours sheds perished.
After a few failed boyfriends, who like wet rags, were uncapable and unable, I realised I needed a man who can. Or at least a fellow who’d have a go.
I am very lucky to have a combination of both in P. And the fact that he can sew makes my knees wobble.