Christmas isn’t about giving. Or receiving. It’s about washing up. And for some of us that’s its greatest joy.
You think men hide from housework? Not when it comes to the soapy science, we don’t. Virtually all my male friends share a love of the bubbles. For us, ‘festive season’ equals ‘even more plates and cups to wash than usual’, and so we’re happy as pigs in Fairy Liquid. Why do we feel the lure of the sink, when other household tasks send us scurrying? Simplicity is part of it: ironing is fiddly, vacuuming and dusting unproductive, in that they leave you with literally nothing to show for your efforts. I know that’s the point, but it’s still an annoying one. Washing up, on the other hand, rewards you with a massive pile of clean dishes, an Everest of achievement.
But the real reason, the one that echoes in our soul, is that washing up is therapeutic.
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