In the flat, when not listening to vinyl recordings by The Housemartins or competing on two-player Columns on the Game Gear or watching Vic Reeves' Big Night Out, there was sometimes an atmosphere; an odour of brinkmanship; a Sergio Leone-esque stand-off. For the inhabitants, me and GLW2B (good lady wife-to-be), were shackled in a game of crockery chicken — who'd crack and do the washing-up?

See, I'd most likely done the cooking: chop onion, lightly fry, add meat, push around pan a bit, chuck in veg and can of toms, and simmer for half an hour. And apart from the washing, ironing and cleaning, what had she done? Exactly, as that small boy on the Accrington milk ad said.

It's just that there was I
Pretending I was tied to the kitchen sink
— Frazier Chorus, Dream Kitchen (1988)
— or anything by The Big Dish (1989)

Years pass. Long shot of an Edwardian terraced house. Medium shot takes us into a laminate floored kitchen, coming to rest on an anonymous cupboard door. Swishing sounds are heard within.

As a reward for a decade of marriage — surely no coincidence — a dishwasher magically arrived from Planet Visa: bish Bosch! Having poked at it like a caveman faced with a burning branch, I overcame my Fear Of Change and did what any self-respecting male must do: I took over.

Is it wrong to want order in this world? On the odd occasion when GLW has "placed" some items in the machine, seemingly with little or no thought, picture me tutting to myself and wryly shaking my head before removing some/all of these, then putting everything in as it should be; you know, properly. Big plates here, smaller ones there, minimal gaps between, and cutlery grouped by utensil, per-lease! Just call me the Finish fascist.

If You Take Away With You Nothing Else

Unfill, refill:

1. some are born to pre-rinse,
2. some achieve the finding of space for the big pans,
3. and some will always leave things until the morning

Be seeing you!

Ed