I'M sitting here, cup of tea to hand, and I’m thinking just how lucky we of this generation are.

The washer is on and then I think back to wash days, when I was a kid.

Oh good heavens, how I hated Mondays; with dolly tubs, three of them, the boiler in the corner going full blast and a maiden round the fire laden with wet clothes.

My mother would be bad tempered, as she was always determined to get everything cleared away before my dad got home.

Dad was king, not that he particularly wanted to be, but that was the way my mum had been brought up.

Men, at that time, were the sole wage earners and so, in our family, they were definitely the head of the household.

Life is good — the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and there’s been tennis on the TV.

Do you know, I’ve really enjoyed it; it’s not a game that I've played, because when I was young, it was always considered a game for the posh folk, but it’s certainly very good to watch, and more so when we are winning.

Even Baby, my little dog, seemed to enjoy it, or perhaps that’s because she just likes sitting on my lap while we both watch.

I suppose I’m like many others who watch, or perhaps I should say waste, at least a couple or more hours every day watching television.

I’ve even been thinking of taking up knitting again so that I won’t feel quite as guilty.

And then I ask myself ‘Margo, why do you feel guilty?’ Well, I suppose it’s that old Lancashire work ethic rearing its ugly head again.

Leisure time was not for the likes of us, it was for the upper classes.

See! There it is again, that class structure. I don’t know about other people, but it’s firmly entrenched in my psyche.