I used to really enjoy cleaning the “Yorkshire Range” which used to catch everyone’s in my kitchen. Rising about seven in the morning, I would clean out all the dead ashes and lay paper, sticks and coal in the grate already for lighting. Then I would dampen a rag dip it in the blackhead and rub it on the black parts of the stove. After that, I would brush vigorously until, at last, I could see my face reflected in it. I would then begin to rub emery paper on the ornate, steel hinges and knob on the oven door. The ashpan received the black-lead treatment and the steel fender was polished with emery paper.
Before putting a match to the paper in the grate, I would step back and lovingly admire the stove, greatly pleased with myself. In a satisfied mood I was ready to begin my other chores. I was a fanatic regarding that stove and made a rule which was always kept. Anyone who poled the fire, or refuelled it during the day, had to pick up a duster hanging conveniently at the side of the mantlepiece, and carefully dust the stove, restoring it back to its former state of brightness.
This routine went on for quite a few years until one morning when I arose, I saw the stove, waiting like a greedy monster ready to be groomed and fed. I suddenly screamed out loud at it: –
“This can’t go on; I’m fed up with you!”.
I had made up my mind – I was determined to have a gas stove installed as soon as I could.
Thanks to Derek Brunt for letting me type up Edith Brunt’s memories (Linda Taylor nee Staton)
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