An ode to the dish fairy

And other acts of kindness...

The ankle is alive and well and living... well at the end of the leg. It has coped with going back to work and the manager has been fabulous about one sloping off an hour or so early for the last couple of days... they really are just glad to have an extra body to help cover the floor, especially at lunchtime. Today was the first time the ankle has felt good, and yet by the time one got near home all one could do was dream of the couch and a horizontal position on it. In fact there might have been moments of micro sleeping on that trip that were devoted to that actual idea.

While we are on the topic of trips home one would just like to put a small thank you into the ether for His mother. She has picked one up at the bus stop, dropping whatever she was doing at the time to do it, at the end of each shift. It isn't far, but we live at the top of a small hill (there isn't really any other kind round here) and with this ankle it might as well be a cliff face; particularly at the end of the day. The woman is awesome... and she actually remembers the right favourite colour. Anyway back to the couch...

It was in one of the moments between micro sleeps that one remembered the dishes... the ones that hadn't been done. Oh the bulk of them are done in the dishwasher down the other end, but things like mugs and knives are done by hand 'cos they do not like being washed any other way. They rebel by going funny colours over time... funny unattractive colours. To be honest one was rather contemplating shoving some detergent in a cup (singular) and being done with it... the couches force is strong.

So with assorted feelings of guilt and competing slovenly behaviours one surveyed the bench next to the sink...

See the thing is He doesn't care about housework. In fact He doesn't understand the need for it at all... if anything it is an intrusion into his thinking time. The trouble is, as one wrote for another place many years ago, no person has ever walked into someone else's place and thought the man of the house needs to do more housework. What they think is she is a lazy pig. It doesn't matter if she works or has been sick... she is the one held responsible. It's why men don't really care about such stuff... they don't have to.

... and lo the dish fairy had been. At that moment one could have kissed its little wings. The levels of gratitude were almost pathetic.

Now where is all of this going you may be wondering? Well to the couch with a snack, SG Atlantis and a glorious three hour nap interspersed by the sounds of gun fire and explosions. A place one highly recommends to any sick slave. To hell with this guilt about an owner doing housework that one reads about J