I write today with the knowledge that destiny has called upon me partake in a task and I fear I am not ready to complete the demands that life has so cruelly forced upon me.
The washing up needs to be done.
I hate washing up. I always have and probably always will.
But what is it exactly that makes my lip curl into a sneer of vile hatred whenever it gets to that time of night when I have to wash up?
Why am I so against having clean pots and pans?
The thought first struck me just now as I looked over and saw the pile that awaits my attention.
And so I thought it best to self analyze this quandary before I make any attempt to clean up the mess I have made and write it all down in a blog.
Yes that is the best way forward.
Firstly, the list of things that needs cleaning is as follows:
Two forks and two knives.
One cup (two girls not supplied)
And one pan.
There is probably more than that but I really can’t be arsed to look too closely.
Now, reading that list back to myself I fully understand that is not a lot of washing up to do. All in all there is about four minutes worth of work and or effort in total. But I hate doing it.
I am quite prepared to faff and fumble for hours at an end in the vain attempt to put off the inevitable.
I don’t know why. I have no problem with hot water. Nor do I find bubbles offensive in any way.
I’m not wholly keen, however, when bits of soggy food cling to my fingers when I am washing pots but that’s not the reason I’m putting off this chore.
There must be a more valid reason inside my twisted brain for me to despise cleaning my cutlery.
Before now I have seriously contemplated buying vast quantities of paper plates and plastic knives and forks so that I would never have to wash up. Once used I could easily throw away my utensils along with any leftover grub the dog turned his nose up at.
Piece of cake!
Alas, disposable cutlery is not as cheap as you might think; especially when you take into consideration I might be buying it long term. Doing the math, I worked out I could save loads of money if I started to clean the plastic forks and knives and used them at least once more... which kind of defeats the object.
Next I thought about only eating Chinese food or stir fry and having a nice pair of wooden chop sticks but then I remembered that I don’t like Chinese food or stir fry so I ended up at square one AGAIN.
My final bright spark of an idea was to eat things I could quite easily pick with my hands, thus negating the need for and kind of cutlery at all. Crisps, chocolate bars, fruit.
This idea seemed full proof until I realised that when I went shopping, the girl at the checkout might think I was a vegan or some such thing and nobody wants to be thought of as a vegan, especially if you are not a communist hippy.
If anything I am the opposite of a communist hippy.
I think that makes me a fascist capitalist.
I’ve just looked over and it’s still there. The washing up still needs washing up.
It seems a pointless task – washing up.
Once scrubbed and cleaned, dried and put away it will less than 24 hours before I know I am going to go through the motions of taking the plates out of the cupboard, slopping some half cooked-yet-still-burnt-to-a-crisp grub onto my nice shiny clean plate, stabbing my knife and fork into the middle of it all and ripping to bits, smearing parts of mush all over the clean bits until the whole thing is chewed up and digested and all I’m left with is the food equivalent of the shadows of people on the walls of Hiroshima.
The aftermath of a meal staring back at me demanding to be wiped from history.
For history, they say, is written by the winners.
And although I’ve won the prize of a full tummy, somehow I feel that I have also lost.
A pile of pots and pans awaits my attention. This is my prize. This collection of filth is the result of many minutes of half arsed preparation and even less time actually consuming my culinary efforts.
All I am left with now is the reminder that I still have work to do.
Soon enough I will be moving out of the caravan and into a house where there is a dishwasher.
Can you imagine such a thing?
A machine that does the washing up for you!
Glory be to the person who invented this miracle of modern day wonder.
Simply pop you dirty plates and bit and bobs in, turn the thing on and walk away. A time saving device that not only SAVES time but creates time for you to do other things like sitting down and having a scratch.
|Son of a ....|
But alas I am not currently in a house. I am still stuck inside my little caravan. There is no room for a dishwasher. Although if I really wanted to be lazy I could leave until the morning and could quite easily do the washing up whilst still in bed.
But that would be wrong.... wouldn’t it??
No. I need to the washing up NOW.
I know I will feel better once it’s done and all the pots are put away.
And so the time has come. I feel I have wasted enough of my time (not to mention yours dear reader) and must resolve to complete my destiny.
|Yet another reason to hate cats...|
I made this mess and I should be the one to clean it up.