One thing that never ends is washing. Sisyphus had it easy, give me that great stone on the gradient over these piles of plates, these heaps of clothes (and then there is drying and the folding, Jesus, why did we ever leave Eden? Not a scrap of nothing on, just hanging in the garden, and the weather was pretty good too, apparently. They hadn’t even invented cancer then, not a breath of death. You know what? I think death lies in every plate, and cup, and those damn box graters that are hard to clean, and those bloody food processors where the food sticks to places that I can’t ever quite access, tiny scraps that you don’t notice until you reassemble the whole damn thing. Death waits there, you could be doing anything else, literally anything else, but here you are and no matter how much you do, it never ends, and there’s Death sniffing around, fun-time personification that it is, and each fold and brush and polish and pack brings you closer. It’ll be whispering in your ear before you know it. One day the washing and the cutlery, that damn cutlery, will just get up and leave, and you’ll stand there, laughing, and then you’ll realise that you have nothing left. What a life, eh? So, please, give me a kiss while you can).