Gay, who is an attractive girl, was rarely short of an escort when she lived at home, was seldom short of something to do, and never short of somewhere to go. Her bedroom, with pictures of the current Pop Stars pinned all over the wallpaper looked for all the world like a theatrical agent's office, except perhaps for the nylons strewn across the floor, and the conglomeration of crumpled feminine garments piled high on the chairs. It was a constant source of amusement to me to see that such a smart, neat young lady could emerge from such chaos.
She attended a convent just like I did, but in my case the building was old and grim, the depressing soot-blackened walls completely enclosed the school and paved quadrangle, the whole fighting for its existence between towering factories in a northern industrial town.
Very different was Gay's. There are clean, old buildings and even cleaner new ones, broad tree-lined driveways, tennis courts and acres of woodlands where the children could gather bluebells in the Spring and chestnuts in the Autumn - provided of course that Reverend Mother's eagle eye was turned the other way.
Every Summer since our wedding Ron has played cricket, one or two games each weekend, and rather than become a 'down-in-the-mouth' cricket widow, I've toted babies, bottles and nappies to as many games as I was physically able.
Before we owned a car these jaunts were an indescribable strain on both mind and body, and if I ever looked 'down-in-the-mouth' it was from sheer exhaustion, but my determination not to be left at home conquered all. Later when we acquired our own transport it was simply a matter of tossing in children and all their requirements and driving away - sheer bliss. There was always more than enough time for sorting out the muddle at the other end of the journey.
What pleasure men get out of cricket I can't imagine - so often a batsman treks out to the wicket, well applauded, head held high and bat swinging, only to return after only one ball. A 'How-zat', a raised finger from the Umpire, and he walks into the pavilion, head lowered, eyes on the ground and bat trailing. Such a long walk and seeming so much further on the ignominious return trip.
Now Ron is principally a bowler, and being a 'tail-ender' the foregoing experience is often his lot. But I have seen him bowl sixteen or eighteen overs at a time with his shirt clinging to his back, perspiration simply dripping off him and a demoniacal grin on his face. "Can that be enjoyment?" I wonder. To someone who has to live with it, cricket is best described as a drug of which the addicts can never have their fill. I do know that I collect a healthy sun-tan every year and enjoy exchanging recipes and gossip with other long-suffering resigned wives. We actually keep up a pretence of enjoying our enforced idleness.
Cricket Clubs are unfailing in that there is some place nearby - be it a spinney, a pond, or a meadow - where the children can play happily and noisily in reasonable safety. At any rate everyone else's come to no harm. Whenever there is an accident you can be sure that one of mine is the unfortunate victim, consequently my First Aid Kit is always kept at the ready. If it weren't for my kids I'm pretty sure the sticking plaster firms would soon be out of business. Broken legs and arms I pass on, thankfully, to the experts, but all minor injuries are coped with at home.
Being at heart a lazy individual, I enjoy a good epidemic - measles, chicken-pox, mumps etc., are welcome here. I firmly believe in putting all the children together and getting it over with.
Who worries about housework when there are invalids to be looked after? It's a wonderful excuse for me to slack. Here again I'm fortunate that my weekly helper is a 'perfect gem'. She sizes up the situation in a flash and without any hesitation volunteers to 'do' an extra hour or two to help me out! This leaves me with just the simple tasks of feeding the patients and seeing to their comforts - drinks - pencils - scissors - glue - plasticine, and potties. The last item usually being required just as the Doctor reaches the top of the stairs, saying "Well, which one first this time?"