I am no lover of housework, so my fondness for washing up is odd. I remember washing horrible greasy dishes after lunch on Sunday with my brother – I hated it then. Sunday was a bad day all round. Full of rules & dreary characters from the family who would be taken on dire walks in Oxlea or Jack woods. We loved the woods when let loose. My family didn’t drink & I would yearn to be left outside a pub with crisps & Tizer. No chance. We would march with obnoxious cousins & odious uncles for several hours talking about cars or decorating the house, or the garden & me already immersed in Zola & high end politics, or so I thought. I sound worse than the family. And what has this to do with washing up? Very little. I find washing up deeply satisfying. It has to be done right of course – glasses, cutlery, nice hot soapy water, absolutely no greasy crocks in the water until near the end then the pots. OK?
I do wonder how this errant love came about – I have a good friend who is convinced he is the best washer up in the world – he is not, I am! Before I start I feel quite ill at the sight of chaos – yet I quite like a bit of chaos in my life, not in the kitchen sink though. When I chose to live in a communal house – age 40 I came unstuck, a little rashly I announced I quite liked washing up, after several days I rebelled, took industrial action & then limited myself to the own cup only method.
Since I have lived alone I have discovered this new joy. I am dreadfully afraid that I may realise that this is the only thing I do rightly! But leaving that thought aside, even the thought of hot soapy water with glasses gurgling to the bottom, coming out without a speck on them is joyful, in fact, if I have a stressful day line up I save the washing up to morning for the therapy of it. Pathetic? But cheaper then counselling, faster than meditation, more available & less messy than sex!
So I will sign off now – my cleaner comes today & I don’t want her using the wrong pot cleaner!
OBSESSIVE? MOI ?