When we were teenagers, my brother and I fought all the time. We must have driven my poor parents insane. One of our biggest bones of contention was washing-up. For many years, my mother resisted the introduction of a dishwasher to our family home on the grounds that her sisters-in-law were against them. Like many of the better examples of modern technology, it was only introduced after I left home. I digress.
I cannot sit comfortably in the knowledge that the dishes await my attention next door. My brother could sit comfortably in this knowledge indefinitely. So, I was always at him to get up and get on with it. And he always said that he would, in time. But by the time he had finished drying a plate my sister and I would have done everything else around him. Or worse, he would breeze in at the end of our labours and claim credit for doing the work based on a paltry contribution of 2 minutes’ work. He and I used to row like blazes about this (my sister just kept working with her head down).
His argument was that I was obsessive about cleaning and, anyhow, I liked washing up. For him, he argued, it was all sacrifice but for me, it was satisfying. This used to drive me to the edge of reason (a spectacle he always enjoyed).
The other day the Princess and I went to her room and cleared out her “make and do” box. This was a bulging cesspit of random (loosely) craft related material which squatted ominously in the corner of her room. We shrunk it, we re-organised it. And it gives me a warm inner glow; even after several days. Isn’t it annoying the way siblings have insights into your character that elude you until you are middle aged?
But, just so we’re clear here, I’d still rather have sat on the sofa and had someone do it for me.
