Idealism is wasted on the young

May 2 2008 by Valerie Hill, Liverpool Daily Post

WHEN I was a feminist in short socks, I blithely pronounced to all who had an hour or ten to spare that I was ready to take on anybody, anything and conquer the world.

I had no concept of “you can’t” or “you don’t”. I was going to grab the world by the throat – hopefully having by-passed my hometown of Haydock – and live life to the full.

However, if youth is wasted on the young, then so is such idealism. Because while I was buying my Germaine Greer pencil case and Simone de Beauvoir felt-tip pens, I never realised that what I had aimed for as a guileless girlie was impossible.

With touching naivety, I didn’t know that having it all meant doing it all. And that to have the career, the babies, the house and the husband meant a lot of year-round maintenance work in those departments.

A bit like painting the Forth Bridge, only not as much fun.

Because it means that, to toddle off to a stimulating job in the city, you first of all have to rise at dawn, prepare breakfast and dinner, bath and clothe at least one child, empty and re-load the washing machine (ditto dish washer), service several lunchboxes and clean the baby sick off your business suit.

Oh, and don’t forget to make the husband a cup of tea before you leave for work at 6am via the child-minder, who lives in the opposite direction to your office, naturally.

Returning home at nightfall, you may just have time for an extra shift of scrubbing, bleaching and polishing before tumbling into bed and, before you know it, the whole process starts again. Talk about “Groundslog” Day.

In my darker moments, I’m glad that I have only sons. Obviously I’m going to miss out on being mother of the bride (and I had planned the outfit already), but I won’t have sacrificed my feminist principles.

For I truly think that, if I had daughters, I’d be tempted to come all over Mrs Bennet from Pride and Prejudice and tell them just to go out and find a rich husband.

Of course, get a university education, have life-enhancing experiences and save a few whales (for what?), but when it comes down to the drudgery of work coupled with domestic chores, have a re-think.

Naturally, I wouldn’t want any girl of mine to turn into the sort of woman who holds her sheets up to the window, or gets over-excited when there’s a pattern on her kitchen roll, but there must be many pluses to being a lady of leisure.

Book clubs, coffee mornings, Botox parties – it would be one long round of chick-lit and facial paralysis. As Freud might say, what more could any woman want?

A little hobby job on the side could suffice, say, two mornings a week promoting a gerbil charity or embroidery circle.

The poet Philip Larkin protested against having “the toad work squat on my life”; most times I feel as though I have a Brazilian bull frog parked on mine.

When I’m not at work, I’m travelling to and from work. When I’m not commuting, I’m working at home. And when I’m not working, I’m feeling guilty because I’m not working. Either that or I’m comatose.

The modern day solution, of course, is to try and achieve some sort of work-life balance. A separate industry has grown up around this concept, giving rise to a whole new vernacular: time sovereignty, life-coaching, family-friendly practices, annualised hours.

We are told we have to work smarter, not harder; to prioritise and factor in “me-time”. And try to choose your workplace on the basis of whether they offer an in-house ironing or dry-cleaning service. Or workstation foot massages. And why not throw in free vitamins like the Victorian factory owners did in order to stop precious manufacturing time being lost to pesky germs?

Laudable though these work-life balance aims are, they still don’t help if you do a job where you can’t work from home, can’t negotiate your hours, and have to trek across town to park your child in an over-priced nursery.

If you are a vicious, cynical, potential grumpy old woman, though (who? me?), you could also end up resenting these little perks doled out to all and sundry on the basis that surely no-one else works as hard as you do, so why are these lazy so and sos getting your just rewards?

After all, what’s the boss paying them for? Just to sit on their behinds and order internet holidays on the firm’s time? Grrr. It’s a nasty thing, self-righteousness. I hope I never suffer from it.