LADY AT LEISURE
Fiona Armstrong sings the praises of modern technology (and gin)
It is one of those perfect Sunday lunchtimes. The chief is busy at t he kitchen table, ploughing through the forest of newspapers we seem to accumulate over the course of the weekend. Darling daughter is home for a few days and is facebooking or tweeting, or whatever it is the young do when they eventually rise from their pits. There’s a seriously good smell from the plump chicken roasting in the Aga, and there’s a catchy tune coming from the state-of-the-art sound system we have just invested in.
I am savouring all these moments – particularly the music, for the MacGregor family does not normally do fancy gadgets. In fact, in this house we are not in the habit of replacing anything electrical until it is well dead and buried. This was demonstrated in the early days of our marriage when, despite tears – then threats of violence – the 20-year-old television we inherited from the in-laws was deemed to be quite adequate for the little time we sat on the sofa and watched it.
It was still infuriating. You would get to the end of a rather compelling detective series. It was week eight of a gripping mystery and now was the time to discover who dunnit. You would be on the edge of your seat – and the ageing bulky black set would decide to go on the blink. It was only when a well-aimed kick to the back failed to stop the constant on-screen interference that we hit the shops in search of a super-duper streamlined smart version.
In these plastic, throwaway days, this anticonsumerism is, perhaps, a refreshing attitude. And making do and mending means that a new piece of equipment, when it does eventually arrive, is all the more exciting to behold. The new sound system we are now t he proud possessors of can hook up to all sorts of tunes stored on a computer, an iPod – and maybe even the dishwasher. It is so futuristic that, while singing away, it may even turn its hand to doing the dishes.
All this is a heady experience. The MacGregor and I were brought up on vinyl, then tape, then CDs. Being catapulted into a magical 21st-century music zone is both thrilling and scary. We can thank darling daughter for dragging us into the future. She has good taste in tunes and her latest offering from the playlist is a young man called George Ezra. His rather old-fashioned baritone voice does not match his youthful face, but boy can he make music.
And so ‘Blame It On Me’ booms out across the kitchen, with human feet tapping on lino and dog tails wagging. The naughties also enjoy their Sunday lunchtimes, especially when the crisps come round. These are used to soak up the alcohol. For this is the day of the week that we allow ourselves a stiff G&T. An ample measure of spirit, topped up with can of sweet fizz, makes things go with a Sunday swing.
The girls sip girlie diet tonic while the chief drinks chiefly full-fat, and it is only marred by a slight disagreement about the lemon. I like mine sliced thinly. The MacGregor prefers his chunky. It could sour the atmosphere. But, really, life is too short. And the day is too nicely domestic. What’s more, let’s face it, with a fruit and veg-averse husband, this is probably the only vitamin C he will get in the week. So there we are: make his – and mine – a large one…
‘The new sound system can hook up to all sorts of tunes stored on a computer, iPod – and maybe even the dishwasher’