I was allowed to wear long flannel trousers at last.

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I listened to Andrea Mclean on loose women yesterday saying how much she wanted to grow into a bra that her mother bought for her before she actually had boobs and it brought back memories of when I couldn't wait to get long trousers.
Andrea thought that when she began to fill the bra that she was on her way to becoming a woman and I thought that having long trousers would be a step nearer to becoming a man, but contrary to Andrea's mum, my mum put off buying me long trousers until I entered my teens. Most of the other boys in school and at Sunday school even though some were younger and smaller than me had long trousers and protest though I might my mother stuck to her guns. I did have jeans to run about with when I was out playing but getting back into short trousers in the morning for school or Sunday school became an embarrassment to me not, because I was ashamed of my legs, (I've still got a good leg for wearing a kilt although I don't ha.ha.)but because it made me feel inferior to the other boys.
Once I started secondary school I was allowed to wear long flannel trousers and for a Sunday my mother bought me a lovat green long trouser suit of which I hated the colour but accepted it because of the length of the trousers but little did I know at the time that it had to last me three years.
Of course the three years were a time when I grew rapidly up and out so after a years wear the suit became tighter and the trousers became shorter but my mother solved the problem by letting the trousers down and during the winter she bought me a beautiful warm woolen shortie coat that hid the fact that my jacket was tightening around my middle (which was fine in winter).
The school flannels were no problem as with being worn five days a week they wore out and were replaced by new ones that fitted but alas the Sunday garb grew tighter and tighter and the trousers could not be let down any more during the third year.
I still had to go to church with my suit on, so to try and hide the fact that the jacket was so tight it could not button I always wore the warm coat I had even, on the warmest of days. I would sit and swelter in the church, then after it came out the younger members would gather at an open air meeting at the beach where I would have to stand in the warm sunshine with my woolen coat on just to try and be one of the group but feeling once again inferior AND stupid this time as the sweat poured out of me.
Eventually I would try and keep out of sight and go straight home after church not going out in the suit unless I was forced to.
I started the sea two weeks after I left school and drifted away from the church gatherings and never wore the dreaded suit again, the suit I had so longed for when I was in short trousers.
Some of my first purchases with my wages were of course new clothes and I remember clearly standing outside the tailors in my smelly working clothes, picking the material for my new suit then getting measured by an under enthusiastic assistant who after he had finished told me it would take two weeks for delivery.
Undeterred I purchased a sports jacket and trousers along with shoes shirts, tiepins and ties, then went home and had a good soak in the bath before I hit the town.
I never looked back after that and had suits made to measure on a regular basis being driven by my dread of short trousers and tight fitting jackets so much so that even if I am on a beach in sunny Spain it has to be really hot before I change into my shorts, preferring to cover up the legs I always wanted to hide in my youth. (Perhaps that is the reason too why this proud Scotsman will never be seen in a kilt)
I still can't understand grown men parading about in shorts but perhaps they didn't go through the trauma I did regarding the length of my trousers and were some of the lucky ones who had long trousers bought by their mums at an earlier age than me.
I can relate to Andrea on wanting to grow up, and when she buys a bra now I am quite sure her mind will go back to her first one, as my mind wanders to my dreaded days in short trousers and my lovat green suit with the long trousers.(Well they WERE long when it was new ha. ha.)

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The wash house in the back garden

Image via Wikipedia

When I switched on the washing machine this morning my thoughts went back to the days when I used to watch my mother doing her washing by hand in a wash house in the back garden, shared by three other neighbours. They had their washday allocated to them and if it happened to rain on that day it was just tough luck and instead of the washing airing on the line outside it had to be taken into the house to dry.
You didn't just throw your clothes into a machine and press a button then, and washing machines were not on the wedding gift lists either as a more likely present would be a washboard or wringer.
On wash day the "sunlight" soap would come out along with the scrubbing board and carried down stairs along with the clothes, while the heavy wringer that was used after they were washed was kept in the wash house. The clothes would be carefully separated into appropriate bundles as not to shrink or discolour them in the wash then they were, in their turn put in a tub of boiling water and stirred occasionally with a wooden stick that was specially made for the job. (The water was heated by a coal fire underneath the tub in a brick enclosure in the corner of the wash house.) Once the clothes were deemed to be clean enough they were lifted out by the stirring stick and placed into a tub of cold water where they were rinsed then, once the soap was extracted they were then put through the wringer (screwed onto another tub to catch the water) which could be adjusted to suit the thickness of the garment being dried and if any stubborn stains were spotted the offending clothes were taken to the scrubbing board and rubbed with the sunlight soap then scrubbed hard until the stain or mark disappeared. If it was a good drying day the clothes would be hung out to dry while the next batch was in the boiler then the procedure would begin again.
When we moved to a new council house the job was made more easy for my mother because she could wash any day of the week she chose and the large metal tub in the kitchen (provided by the council) was heated by electricity, also the wringer was screwed onto a attachment between the two sinks that was part of her modern kitchen. The task was still as tedious and very hard work but it was made more convenient given the electricity and the fact she was in her own kitchen.
She then progressed to a plain washing machine only then a twin tub that spun the clothes but still used her boiler to wash as she thought it was better for the really dirty clothes. Now she has an automatic machine but the irony of it all is that she only has her own clothes to wash in comparison to the five children and a husband she looked after in the days of the wash house.

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