My mother always vacuumed in her underwear.
If she did the cleaning on a Saturday morning, she’d be caught wearing her old, faded, chewing-gum-white bra and discoloured pants. Sunday afternoon was reserved for the best stuff—a fancy black lace bra and the matching Marks and Sparks cami-knickers.
If the doorbell rang while she was vacuuming, she would happily pad down to the front door, flinging it wide open to greet the postman with an even wider smile. Like nothing was unusual. Like everybody did it.
I couldn’t help thinking the postman could easily use the letterbox once in a while.