Many years ago television was considered a luxury and a big expense. As kids in the 50s and 60s, we made our own fun – playing outside when it was warm until we got called home for tea, or reading books and playing with our toys. However, when I was 11, one of my neighbours in our little street bought a television set. By today’s standards, it was a boxy, small screened fuzzy antique, but to us, it was a thing of wonder.
Suddenly all of the kids in the neighbourhood would gather at Wendy’s house to watch television. A small lounge room full of children sitting cross-legged on the floor gazing in rapt silence at the flickering black and white images before us. We deliberately shut our ears to the calls of our mothers shouting to get us home for tea.
Oh, we kids wanted one, but Dad refused. He was always a bit behind the times. However, we girls set up a persistent charm offensive. We wrote notes that said “please buy a TV” or “we need a TV” or even “Karen will wash the dishes without whinging if we get a TV”. Poor Dad. These notes went in his lunch box for work, his socks, his shoes, his slippers, under his pillow and even sitting on his mashed spud at tea time.
That poor man. He gradually succumbed and bought home the offending article and set it up in the front room.