I had a very productive day at the weekend and tackled the huge backlog of housework which has been taunting me over the last few weeks. The good thing - if there is one - about housework, is you get a chance for a good old think and that is exactly what I did as I picked limescale off the shower, hoovered biscuit crumbs and toenails off the boy’s bedroom carpets and wiped muddy pawprints from kitchen cabinet doors. The topics I covered ranged from how exactly did toothpaste end up smeared on the underside of the sink; to why-oh-why can’t teenagers spot an empty loo roll and just take it away instead of making a stockpile on the cistern; and why ‘housework’ – sweeping generalisation here – still, on the whole, falls to the woman of the house?
In our household we have a pretty equal division of labour. Two parents equally parenting, two boys equally slinking off from chores unless there is a quick buck to be made. (The rota on the fridge of dishwashing duties, setting tables, making beds and keeping their own rooms tidy is now hidden behind Domino pizza flyers and a redundant dentist appointment card). My husband and I both work full time and are equally as knackered. We both cook – me the boring basics that fill tummies Monday to Thursday - he the yummy stuff all weekend and whenever he is off work. We both grocery shop – him more than me; we both do the washing; we both take the dog out; we both hoover. Neither of us clean the oven. He does most of the ironing (I hate that task); he mows the lawn (ditto); I do the bins, change the bedlinen and take on all the yuckier bits of housework like loo seats and limescale. It works for us. I don’t find it unusual that we have to share these tasks - but over the years, speaking to friends - I realise that my husband is quite unusual in the fact he does. I have been told I am ‘lucky’ he ‘helps me’ in the house - as if it is a favour to me, rather than a shared household chore. When I am away for work and he looks after the boys on his ownsome for up to two weeks – I get looks of awe when I chat to colleagues, who assume, like a lot of the people who work in the industry I am in, that he wouldn’t be able to cope and I would have a nanny or Au-pair to step in and do this for me. Yeah, right.
I completely agree that stereotypical division of labour will be highlighted more in households where one partner works and the other – usually the woman - takes on the arguably harder task of bringing up children full-time; or works part time and is able to share more of the domestic duties. But there are many, maybe the majority of households, where even when BOTH adults are in full-time employment, ALL of the housework, cooking and childcare falls solely to the woman. For us, we have both always worked and have tried to find a way that the domestic side fits in – which in reality often means ignoring the dust, the length of the lawn and taking advantage of the Domino pizza leaflets when it is my turn to cook. And if I sound smug about this, I am sorry, but especially having two boys, I am determined for them to see that if a job needs doing, either of us can do it and that their father’s contribution to childcare and domestic duty, didn’t just stop at impregnation and then changing the odd token nappy.
We chatted about the division of labour and stereotypes over dinner on Mother’s Day and the conversation naturally turned to the horrific events this week, where Sarah Everard was found dead in woodland miles away from where she lived, missing after walking home alone. As a woman, there has always been an added unsaid fear and vulnerability once darkness descends. I’m not talking about falling out of night clubs and hitching lifts home at 2am – even though in theory we should be safe to do this too – but it has been drilled into us that that may not be a sensible option to take. I’m talking about day-to-day activities. Getting off a train at 6pm and walking back to my flat. Cutting through a park after a lecture in the depth of winter when it is dark at 4.30pm. Going for an early morning jog before sunrise. Finding my car in a car park after late night shopping at 8pm. Walking home from a friend’s house less than a mile away at 9.30pm. Just normal, run of the mill stuff. But, as a woman, these seemingly easy activities that my husband wouldn’t think twice about doing, are blighted with the ever-present thought that someone may be following. That someone may attack – and that someone is highly likely to be a man. And because of this, subconsciously we tightly clutch keys in our pocket ready to strike in defence or have a hand on a mini hairspray can squirrelled away, or a firm grasp on our bag ready to lash out. We spend our time assuming anyone behind us is a potential threat, but daren’t glance backwards for reassurance, in-case we provoke. We often change out of heels into trainers after a night out in-case we need to run fast to escape and make pretend phone calls to avoid eye contact with anyone if we are alone after dark for a second. I vaguely recall I we had self-defence classes at our girl’s school, or it could have been Guides – where we were shown the correct moves in case we are attacked. We were also advised to carry rape alarms in our bags alongside the usual paraphernalia of lipstick, tampons and tissues. You guys think we are joking?
Imagine the freedom of being able to walk from A to B in the dark on your own without being chaperoned or tracked on your phone or remembering to text when you arrive ‘safely’. The more I have read this week and spoke with friends – the more I found out we all do it. We text to make sure friends arrive in one piece even if they are driving. We arrange lifts home after nights out with military precision making sure no one is on their own even for a minute – friends walk in groups to the train station or accompany each other to taxi ranks. Fear lurking on every corner. And that is just us in a rural market town not a war-torn city with a curfew. Like many women, I can tell you I have had incidents too close to call when I have been just going about my everyday business. One of the creepiest happened at around 7pm walking back one winter’s evening from the tube to my flat when I lived in London. I sensed someone following, so I did what we all do. I sped up. He sped up. I walked slower hoping he would overtake. He walked slower. He got near enough I could hear him muttering sexual expletives under his breath. I stopped to look in an estate agents window hoping he would just go. He stopped and pretended to tie his shoelace. Heart pounding in my throat, moments from home, I did the pretend phone call trick – bluffing away loudly into the silent handset that yes – I can see you on the corner - I will be with you in a moment, waving to an imaginary person. The creep disappeared. I am not saying anything would have happened, but I was furious this guy thought it was fun just to scare, getting a pathetic hard-on with his cruel game.
I have two sons. No daughters, so I cannot pass on my self-defence tips. But what I can do is educate our sons to look out, to be aware. To know that unfortunately the pure fact they are men, innocently going about their business, if they find themselves walking up the same road as a woman in the dark, they will be seen as a threat. But they know what to do. To cross sides. To hang back. To make a pretend phone call themselves to their mum or a friend so the woman in front hears they are just human. If she slows – overtake. If she stops to browse a shop window - walk past. If she is being threatened by someone – step in and be the reassurance she is seeking. And this is for all women – old and young. Fear has been fed into our psyche and it is going to take a lot of considerate males to change the way we feel.
I hope in time that there will be a generation of thoughtful people who won’t think twice about picking up a loo brush, or hoover, or sticking the washing on without question. And the same time, a generation of people who can just jump on the bus or arrange to see a friend after dark without a subconscious fear. A generation where male or female – it shouldn’t matter.
Until that time, educate your sons, wise-up your daughters and think of those who are victims purely because they were born female.
RIP Sarah Everard
@ The Real Tilly Fairfax