The old codgers guide to washing up
What is it with men and washing up?
Halfway through my morning cuppa The Grump is hovering over me trying to grab the cup. Before it’s even cold, the cup is washed, dried and put away neatly in the cupboard.
I shouldn’t complain, if I linger over my lunch, he’s whipped up all the dishes, washed and dried them and cleared up all the crumbs
His desire to wash dishes reminds me of my father, who would have run a mile had he been asked to do anything around the house when I was growing up.
But I suppose boredom comes with old age and dish washing beckoned him.
He meant well but never wore his glasses to wash the dishes and consequently they had to be re-washed as soon as he had vacated the kitchen.
My parents lived with us for their last 12 years and we had a kitchen-diner with a huge table. Every Sunday I would cook a roast for the family, our daughters' boyfriends, and any friends of ours who happened to be at a loose end.
So with at least 12 to cater for there was plenty of washing up to be done. In a normal household, the teenage daughters would slope off with their boyfriends, but not in ours!
At the end of the meal the whole family would try to beat my father to the sink. Overreacting you may think – read on...
One Sunday afternoon after a particularly good lunch, we were lingering at the table chatting, and my dad was happily scrubbing away at the dishes in the kitchen sink.
My mother moved in to inspect his work and noticed something floating around in the suds. “My God Charlie!,” she said in horror, “what are your false teeth doing in the bowl with the cups?”
I can see his face now as he sheepishly replied: “Just washing ’em up Olive, what’s wrong with that?”
“But-they’ve-been-in-your-mouth!” my mum screeched.
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders the way he always did when she’d caught him out putting a bet on the horses or throwing one of her burnt cakes on the back of the fire, and quietly replied “so have the forks”.
There’s no answer to that!