With the washing machine going and the tumble dryer on it’s third cycle of the day, two cats sitting on the bin staring at me and Radio 4 gently rumbling away about something or other in the corner it was time to tackle the dishes.

Under normal circumstances the dishes are done by the dishwasher.
When I was growing up we were instructed to ‘rinse’ the dishes before we put them in the dishwasher. Often we would not ‘rinse’ them enough and would have to take them back out of the dishwasher and ‘rinse’ them again.
I say ‘rinse’ because what was really meant was ‘wash’ as it seemed to take just as long, use just as much water and plates going into the delicate interior of our dishwasher were as clean as the ones coming out of it.

I have been making my dishwasher suffer for this ever since I bought it.

Sadly, this being a miner’s cottage in Redruth, washing machines, tumble dryers and dishwashers had not been factored into the design and the layout is such that they all connect to the same electrical trip. This trip switch refuses to tolerate the running of all appliances and shuts down the ground floor on a regular basis.

Washing dishes can be really relaxing if you only have to do it as a treat , bit like a warm bath for you hands, and I was rather enjoying it in a novel kind of way when I became aware of the noise from upstairs.

When got there Prole2 had his face buried in the pillow and when I excavated him his face was all red and puffy.
I had not heard him but and there was a general dampness about him that suggested he had been crying for some time and he took a while to calm down.
I felt awful trying to imagine what emotional torture he must be going through.

Prole2(weeping): I can’t find my eeyore.

Me: You are lying on him.

Prole2(as if dying): That’s my pilow.

Me: No, that’s eeyore.

Prole2 (miraculous recovery): Oh, good night dad. (rolls over to instant sleep)

Prole1: Thanks Dad, I could hardly hear myself reading over all the noise.