A certain exigency at the home front has seen me co- stationed in the kitchen with one of the less afflicted siblings for longish spells of time. I do love cooking , but with cooking come all the appendages, like washing dishes and cleaning. Incidentally, the kitchen is a place where teeny weeny catastrophes take place that do not kill, but certainly become a cause for great annoyance.
For instance, an innocuous looking spoon can drive a gash into your poor innocent baby finger which in sheer grief lets out a spillage of crimson agony.
Talk about undermining the power of the common man, sorry, the common spoon !
And then there is this strange imp at work, who keeps tossing out one dish after the other, which invariably find their way into the kitchen sink. Guess what follows next ? I have a strange feeling, the neighbours are talking amongst themselves about the lady they see from their windows, perpetually washing dishes. And trust me, no matter what the advertising gurus say, washing bars for dishes ain’t kind ! They hurt, they burn, they itch – and while the sparkling dishes preen happily, I lick my wounds , metaphorically of course, in the safe confines of my bed at night. I have used gallons of Suthol and slathered boroline to soothe them.
So here I am now, typing this post, with one of my unhurt fingers, during a wee bit of time that I have managed to eke out from the kitchen!
And don’t pity me – it feels good to be doing good, productive things during holidays – and has even got me to writing after a pretty long spell . 😂
