How to be a bit of a scrubber...

Yesterday my son came home trailing a suitcase stuffed withlaundry.  He doesn't stay very long youunderstand – just long enough to have me wash, tumble dry, iron and repack thesuitcase.  Robbie came through the doortelling me all about his latest dissection with great gusto.  I always do my best to be enthusiastic back,but it's hard.  I like human bodies to bealive, kicking and in one piece.  Notsmelling of formaldehyde with bits missing from the previous lot of medicalstudents who had to remove a brain or something.
I unzipped the suitcase and my son's clinic tunic was perched ontop.  'Give that a good wash Mum,' saidRob, 'it reeks of death.' He gave me a mischievous wink.  I donned a pair of pink rubber gloves andgingerly set about dissecting the contents of my son's suitcase, placing thetunic in the washing machine as if a stick of dynamite.
I'm thrilled my son wants to be a dentist and has embraced hisstudies with such passion.  My mother istoo.  As a retired nurse, she was verysad that her own daughters didn't follow her into the profession, especially inthe days of us husband hunting and not bagging ourselves a doctor.  Being raised by a nurse rubbed off on mysister and self in other ways.  OCD aboutgerms being key.  When we were kids, weimagined an army of virulent germs carting us off to hospital if we didn't washour hands for example.  Death hovered inevery public toilet. 
In some respects my son has morphed into my mother.  Little did I know that as I stood at thekitchen sink washing my hands, my actions were being studied.  'You call that hand washing?' Robbie spluttered.  'Let me show you how to clean your handsproperly.'  And with that he set aboutgoing between the webby bits, circling motions over the palms, washing eachindividual finger and thumb in a clockwise and anti-clock direction, and thenproceeded to work his way up to the elbow. 'I'm not scrubbing up for surgery,' I gaped at him in disbelief, 'I justwant to peel the vegetables.'
Anyway, all this chat about corpses and food reminds me of a sillyjoke
What did the skeleton say before eating his dinner?  Bone appétit.
I know.  Dismal.  Happy Sunday everyone...