Saving the best for what?

When we were young, we had “the good lounge”. It was furnished with a dark brown velour three-seater set, which I think came from Geen & Richards, and accessorised with a few crocheted cushions. The windows wore off-gold taffeta curtains with voile underneath. We called those “sun curtains”, although they seemed to function more as a petticoat than anything else. 

There was a dark brown coffee table that purported to be antique, which might simply have been good marketing, and a sad reddish-brown Persian carpet that did little to detract from the serious nature of the room. 

A brass-to-copper light fitting centred the room, circled by a lonely fly that never seemed to find the way to freedom. It was a room without air. A room that took itself very seriously. It was the good lounge and it knew it. 

We were never allowed inside without express permission. The doors remained closed to keep out us children or the dogs, or both. Being part of the family gave us access to most of the house, but there were limits to what could be achieved through birth. 

I don’t remember who qualified for admission. I do remember that we didn’t. 

There’s something wonderfully peculiar about having a room in your home that you preserve by not living in it. Someone had chosen the furniture, paid for it, arranged the cushions, and then shut the door. Elsewhere, the family carried on being a family, with upholstery that had less to lose. 

I’m fond of that memory. There was care in it, and pride. The good lounge was ready. Should an appropriate visitor arrive, we wouldn’t have to apologise for the state of the velour. 

The good lounge might have disappeared from many homes, but its principles remain safely folded in the linen cupboard. The good towels, for example. Thick, soft, and reserved for people who don’t pay the water bill. The household uses towels that have gradually become exfoliating equipment, while visitors get to dry themselves in something approaching a small cloud. 

Then there’s the crockery. We buy plates because we love them, which apparently means we must eat from something else. The beautiful dishes wait for an occasion. An ordinary supper, even with everyone home and getting along, somehow fails to meet the requirements. 

I understand saving things for Shabbat or a celebration. Bringing out something special can help make the occasion feel special. But there’s also the candle that never gets lit because it will burn down. The lovely soap nobody uses because it will stop being lovely soap. We can become so successful at preserving something that we remove every opportunity to enjoy it. 

What makes me uncomfortable is wondering whether we do this with ourselves as well. 

Visitors get our attention. We ask questions and listen to the answers. The people closest to us can find themselves competing with a phone while we insist we’re listening. We are. More or less. They can always tell us again. 

I’d like to think I’m too sensible to save all my best things for other people. Although I’m less confident about my patience. It’s uncomfortable to consider that someone visiting for an hour might get more of it than someone who lives with me. 

The towels are easy enough to take out. Paying attention requires putting something down. 

I’m still fond of the good lounge. But I wouldn’t want the people I love to remember me in quite the same way: ready for visitors, with the doors closed to everyone already home.