I spend all morning chiselling plastic coated paint from a metal unit in the kitchen, the bits are plinking all over my face, neck and arms. When I`ve finished, it`s another chisel job to get it off my skin. I hoover, then sit down with a coffee, sandwich and two mini crunchies. On T.V. a programme called The 200-year-old house is on. The Victorians never cease to amaze, they create a wallpaper which has arsenic in its makeup (to preserve and anhance the bright colours) which becomes airborne when aggitated. The maid, who ironically is employed to keep the place clean, by using her feather duster, is responsible for putting them all in hospital. Her other tasks are to empty the chamber pots, cook and rake out the fire place, hand washing is not one of their strong points.
Outside, the streets run with manky water, which is a mixture of household waste and human waste which would run under the doors, another maid task to sort out, meanwhile, the lady of the house would be seeing to her embroidery surrounded by ornate hair brush sets and books on how to be a good housewife. No doubt later attending the meeting for votes and rights for women with the Pankhursts of this world, which her maid wouldn`t have time for. Suddenly my little cabinet doesn`t seem so daunting.