After the Party

Blog 1 – day 2 – after the party - flippant

No matter what you say, think, believe or cater to, having a conscience can be a pain to whichever part of your (or is it you’re? nope right first time) anatomy takes your(?) fancy. Mine’s in the neck. So why am I suffering this scourge to my wellbeing? Something (! It’s back) silly but important by turn.

When you’re (thought you had me I’ll bet) part of a couple who live, work and play together each action is taken as seriously as your ongoing commitment. In other words if you say “I’ll sort that sweetheart” you should move heaven and earth to do it. So why am I feeling so guilty? Easy, I didn’t sort it, admitted it was only washing up, my excuse is too many options. ‘You what?!?!’ I hear you cry. Like I said way too much to choose from in ways of going about this horrendous task.

Post Party Major Rules:   When committed to washing up, you have to go and find other peoples’ dishes, which invariably are filled with sweet wrappers, peanuts (did we have peanuts?) tissue hopefully used for wiping sticky fingers, or half a pint of lager. Gathering and balancing is quite an art and I pride myself that I can stack and rack ‘em with the best, until all confidence disappears with a gentle reminder screamed from the kitchen “watch out for grandma’s bone china, it’s rare and precious”. So how come we have eleven cups and twelve saucers?

And who gave you so many options for cleaning, on a day when there is enough crockery and cutlery about to have allowed the feeding of the 5000 to take place in our dining room. Well you don’t think the participants in this biblical feast ate the food offered from yesterday’s newspapers (like ‘angling today, the grocer, Mary Berry’s “ bread for all occasions”). No it had to be eaten off plates – what else is there?

Back to cleaning: when we were young “helping with the washing up” was a treat, it gave you a chance to stand on the kitchen chairs, put washing up liquid (usually  Fairy, my mum used DAZ or OMO  -  don’t ask) into the washing up bowl, my mum’s washing up bowl was the kitchen sink, she used the washing up bowl as the laundry basket, and so on. So this left the sink for creating a bubble storm which took  gallons of water to rinse off. After twenty minutes or so of bubble-soaked riotous fun, mum would say ‘that’s enough’ snatch you off the chair, your woolly pulley dripping water all over the kitchen floor, then tell you off for making a mess (Guilty feeling.)

Before I started the washing up as instructed, I thought I’d be smart and suggest in a somewhat superior tone, maybe more sarcasm than superiority, that we had not long spent a fortune on the birdy kitchen, which just happened to include a dish washer – 15 love.  But you’ll remember dearest (heavy sarcasm) it was a dinner party not a canteen lunch =. We used the fine bone china, not good in dishwashers.  15 all.  Can’t we put it on a cool wash? We’re doing dishes dear, not dishcloths.  15 – 30.  But their old and losing a bit of colour won’t hurt.  The “colour” – deepest sarcasm – is gold darling, and gold doesn’t mix with abrasive dish-washing water, it turns it dull – just look at my wedding ring! - OUCH!!!!  -- 15-40 – but the ring is platinum, my angel. 30 – 40 .  Not according to the insurance assessor. divine one, pure sarcasm – game – set – match.

So we stood in the kitchen, silently, surveying our generosity to our friends, and taking a leaf from “catch me if you can” went up to the sink, hip touching hip, and swayed and washed to Leo Sayer singing “long tall glasses” ,we don’t know many 50s American smoochy music type songs, eventually easing my guilt and worked together, a team once more.

But as we all know washing up saga is eternal, never resting, continuously accumulating, determined to overwhelm the galaxy, issuing threats of disruption to society (melodramatic), but rescue is at hand – there’s an echo in here –“don’t worry I’ll sort it sweetheart, I’ll start tomorrow.”