Why we sent our marriage back to 1913

I grit my teeth and remember this will be good for our marriage – at least according to Blanche Ebbutt. She is the author of Don’ts For Wives 1913 and Don’ts For Husbands 1913, two pocket-sized publications that remained in print for two decades after their initial print run before reappearing in book stores a couple of years ago and finding favour as ironic gifts between married couples.

When the edition for wives turned up in my Christmas stocking from Jonathan – my partner of 10 years, husband for two – I played him at his own game by finding the male equivalent and challenging him to live by the rules for one week.

So this is how I find myself swinging a club early one Sunday morning. Instead of moaning at him for playing golf all weekend I’m advised by Blanche to learn the game and join a mixed club. She says he “will be only too delighted to have you with him”. I wonder how long it will be before one of us rams a club down the other’s throat and think now is not the time to remind my dear husband he has promised to come clothes shopping with me later.

To my surprise the books are more forward thinking than I had imagined and Blanche does her bit for women’s lib. There’s advice on having separate bank accounts, not taking too literally the “obey” of the marriage vows and a warning to him not to talk down to his wife or presume she doesn’t have a valid opinion on politics. This was the era of the Suffragettes after all.

However I still expect to fail our challenge miserably. It’s no big secret that I hate housework. I’m good at tidying and when I have the time I like to cook but I don’t care enough to have a “household management system” as Blanche calls it. When we moved in together five years ago Jon and I had a cleaning rota – a legacy from years of communal living – but after a few weeks we realised that a clean house is a sign of an empty life and being young professionals enjoying the city life, we’d rather have the opposite. Now we clean only when we have to.

However for the sake of our future happiness I decide to tackle household chores every day for a week. On Monday I clean the bathroom thoroughly. I even get an old toothbrush and some bleach and attack the greying tiles in the shower. On Tuesday it’s the kitchen including taking everything out of the cupboards and drawers and cleaning inside. On Wednesday I dust and vacuum and on Thursday I spend two hours ironing – including half a dozen of Jon’s work shirts, something I’ve always refused to do.

On Friday I do five loads of washing but it seems I have committed a cardinal sin because when my husband returns from work, Blanche’s words ring in my ears: “Nothing is more annoying to a tired man than the sight of half-finished laundry work.” The drying washing all over the house is “like a red rag to the bull” apparently.

The fact I work from home makes it easier to devote a couple of hours to housework every day but it’s still difficult balancing my wifely duties with my job as a freelance writer, not to mention my social life.

If I didn’t work full-time I can see managing a home could keep me occupied most of the time. Yet it seems not only did the women Blanche was writing for not work at all but they also had a team of household staff to do pretty much everything. I’m left wondering what women actually did in 1913.

Looking over the clean washing I feel quite proud of my efforts until, that is, I realise my lovely husband hasn’t noticed. After about three days of biting my tongue I ask him what he thinks of the abundance of pressed shirts and T-shirts in his wardrobe. He looks at me blankly before mumbling something about thinking his T-shirts had dried exceptionally well this week.

R efusing to feel disheartened I decide to follow the rule that suggests I greet Jon at the door when he returns from work. “Don’t let him search the house for you,” writes Blanche. “Listen for his latchkey and meet him on the threshold.” He’d hardly have trouble finding me in our tiny two-bed terrace which was built about the same time as these books were written. However I realise I’ve developed a bad habit of continuing with my work and barely acknowledging he’s home. It’s something that needs to change.

I hand him his slippers because apparently I shouldn’t think this is beneath me and serve up lasagne and homemade sticky toffee pudding. The men’s book recommends occasionally bringing home a bunch of flowers or chocolates. “Your wife will value even a penny bunch of violets for your thought of her,” assures Blanche. However she was clearly not considering wives on healthy eating missions. When Jon turns up with a giant tin of chocolates because they were reduced to “only £4 in the Co-op” I growl at him for being so insensitive before secretly scoffing a handful.

M OST days when Jon comes home from the office I am wearing tracksuit bottoms and hooded top but on Thursday I opt for skinny jeans, heels and a glitzy top I would usually wear to the pub. I wonder if Blanche has a point when she advises wives not to “get into the habit of dressing carelessly when there is only your husband to see you. He is a man after all and if his wife does not take the trouble to charm him there are plenty of other women who will.” Jon tells me he prefers me in my comfy clothes. Thank goodness, I sigh, as skinny jeans and heels are not particularly comfortable for lounging about in.

We also try an evening without the television, our usual entertainment. I draw the line at singing for Jon despite Blanche’s insistence that “you couldn’t have a more indulgent or appreciative” audience but playing cards is fun and something we’ve not done for years.