I have a love/hate relationship with washing up. It has a sense of achievement about it, you can see what you have done, going from messy to clean, from cannot move for dirty plates to space to put things, from annoying clutter to clean minimilism. What I don't like, because we are a family of five (well four and a half now that eldest son has gone off too university) - what I don't like is the fact that like clothes washing, dishwashing never ends . . . . and no sooner have I finished than someone brings in more dishes that have been lost in their bedroom for a while. But mostly it is good. There is a meditative quality to it, filling the sink with just too hot to stand water, watching the bubbles froth up as the sink fills, whilst at the same time putting the radio on to New Zealand National for something interesting to listen to in the background - today it was an interview where they talked about copyright, piracy and obscurity.
And then washing itself. Glasses first, then plates and finally pans, each one ending up squeeky clean and sparkly in the sun. From chaos to order right before my eyes more magically than even Harry Potter could manage. Mind you, him being a teenager he probably thinks the plates wash themselves anyway . . .
One day we will have a dishwasher that works again, a beautifully shiny double drawed number by Fisher and Paykel. And when we do I will not miss washing up by hand at all but until then . . . . it's all good.
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