Diced and Dished
The husband and I are playing games these days. Bored, you would think, in lockdown. Our very own special second lockdown. Thanks, Swansea!
Two nights ago, we rolled the dice. I got a five, the husband, two. ‘Your turn,’ I said, cocking my eyebrow at the rapidly growing mountain of dishes in the sink. In typical fashion, he said, ‘Just consider it done.’
I considered all night and well into the afternoon of the next day. Finally, when there no plates left to eat dinner off, we rolled the dice again. It was a new day after all. I got a one, he got a two again. The dishes got done.
There was a time in my misspent youth when I loved doing the dishes. In fact, I think one reason why the husband moved to London with such alacrity was that he was carrying a made-to-order dishwasher with him. What he hadn’t realised was the difference between doing the dishes a couple of times a month when the Jeeves didn’t report for work and doing them three times a day. Every day. For ten years. The fun had kind of worn out. As had the skin on my hands.
We began life in London with the dishes being done after every meal. It helped that our kitchen and living room were inextricably linked. Sit on the sofa and you could see the dishes in the sink. Not quite the high Indian standards we aspired to.
When we moved to Swansea, the dishes had to be done. Because the enchantingly picture-book fisherman’s cottage we were renting was charming a whole disco-load of slugs as well. Partying all night, too, if the silvery trails on the carpet were any indication. When I discovered two dead slugs in my flour, we moved. Into our own flat. Where I decided it was time to train the husband.
I set down rules. ‘One tea mug for me, one for you. For the whole day.’ We drink about six cups of tea in a day. Each. Twelve mugs. Now cut back to two. I was already feeling happier. The husband looked as if the tea cannister had jumped up and socked him one.
The next day I caught the husband slipping the plate he’d eaten his banana off into the sink. ‘Halt!’ I cried peremptorily. ‘You can use that plate again for lunch.’ The husband set his plate down obediently. But he looked sad. ‘You can throw the banana skin away,’ I consoled him.
Third rule. ‘I cook, you wash.’ This was more acceptable to the husband. Not so much to me. Simple fact: I use fewer dishes when I cook. We women are like that. Also, the husband was prone to pitching in while I cooked. Mostly uninvited. Mostly also unwelcome. Let’s just say pitching in was his party trick. In the event, who was going to wash the dishes? ‘I warmed up the rotis,’ he claimed in defence when shown the sink.
The rules were followed. The sink was only half full. Major plus. But used crockery festooned every available surface. Not so major a plus. Maybe it was time to rethink the rules. I’m magnanimous like that. Not too scared to admit I’m wrong. The husband might have another opinion on that.
That’s when we began rolling the dice. Just to up the competitive quotient, you know. I’ve already told you how that worked out. You see, the husband is a man. He has the typical male propensity for tunnel vision. The light at the end of it to be found on WhatsApp only.
The kitchen sink has swung back to full. Except when I throw the lower number.
