Jackie McGregor: Killing Hyacinth: Exorcising the haunting legacy of the front parlour

He looked suitably embarrassed — and rightly so. He knew the rules. He’d broken them.

“Here, take them,” he said, handing over the cushions.

He’d been lounging against my embroidered cushions; these are strictly for guests. I arrange them on the sofa every morning, in case of visitors, then replace them with shabbier ones before he gets home. They’re not for casual use. They’re the “good cushions.” I simply hadn’t had time to switch them.

Next day, I warned my son not to use the good bathroom towel. It was only out because a plumber was coming to fiddle with my pipes. Then I panicked in case the plumber used it - it was pure white, trimmed with rhinestones, and absolutely for display purposes only.

Junior gave me his usual eyeroll at my quirks. Somewhere along the line, I had morphed into Hyacinth Bucket.

I can’t help it. It’s a generational thing, drilled into me by my mother and grandmother.

They lived under the constant threat of the unannounced guest. I grew up with the “good room” and the “good china” — things that existed mostly to be admired, not used.

In my grandmother’s day, the front parlour was completely off-limits. That was where the sacred china cabinet lived, packed with treasured items. Even the word “parlour” was said in hushed tones, as if talking about a shrine.

My childhood home had the same “good room”: red velvet, a china cabinet housing Waterford crystal, Capodimonte ornaments and Royal Doulton porcelain. My mother polished it daily, as if the Queen might arrive for inspection.

After I beheaded one of her Royal Alberts, I wasn’t allowed near it. I inherited the darn thing, and now it sits in my house: a loathsome mausoleum of memories.

In gran and mum’s day, a rumpled cushion was seen as a personal failure of domestic standards. That’s probably why I still fear the phantom judgement of visitors who aren’t even coming.

Thankfully, the days of the formal parlour are gone.

The word “parlour” derives from the French “parler,” meaning “to speak,” so it was literally the talking room - reserved for visitors, supervised courting, and laying out loved ones before funerals.

Then, with the rise of commercial funeral businesses, death was moved out of the home (hence the name funeral parlour) and people wanted to move away from the parlour’s morbid reputation, so it was rebranded the’ living room.’

China cabinets remained a showcase of treasures, designed to display a family’s prosperity and distract from any lingering sense of parlour doom. In bygone years nice things were meant to last a lifetime as they weren’t easily replaced.

Decades later, I’ve decided to dispose of the cabinet and contents. Mum’s influence of the idea that this was a hallowed object, is loosening.

It won’t be easy unlearning generations of domestic brainwashing, but it’s time to stop saving the good things for imaginary guests and royal visits.

So, I took a deep breath, asked my husband to sit forward, and slipped two embroidered cushions behind him.

He looked appalled.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he whispered handing them back like they were unexploded bombs. “They’re the good cushions.”

Mum would be so proud.