Half a century on, it strikes me there’s not much difference between the modern woman and a 50s housewife.
My husband walks in from work and routinely finds me whipping something up in the kitchen (usually a blog entry, sometimes a corporate workshop, occasionally a chapter for the vampire-free young adult sci-fi romance – today, this comparative exposition about modern women being like 50s housewives).
Dinner is waiting.
I have freshened up for his arrival home. Yes, I have. When I hear his key in the door, I hope there’s a top flapping on the clothes airer beside me that’s not covered in regurgitated S26 Gold. If there is, I throw it on and fling the dirty one across the room into the washing basket (or near it, on the floor, hopefully where he won’t trip over it).