Suds on hands
Whilst I have a
dishwasher that does all the chores of a full domestic the cooking today did
not require too much cleaning up as I made a stir fry. The beauty of that is you’re
in and out of the kitchen in just 20 minutes or less.
To clean up, I had a
frying pan, a ladle, a spatula, a dish, a fork, and a tumbler. All that could be
handwashed and left to dry on the dish drainer, without ruining my manicure.
However, as I turned on the tap and squirted washing up liquid on the sponge, I
began to rock from foot to foot.
Rock my baby
Brian would know what
that means, the fact that I can be so pressed when I am in the kitchen and
rather than drop everything even as my bladder is bursting for immediate relief,
the apparent rocking motion appears to buy me time to finish what I am doing
before I literally have to run to the gents.
I sometimes wonder
why my anxiety for release almost seems like a personal test of stupid
endurance to no other end than to present possible embarrassment, if I wet my
pants. Much as I have determined that I should just respond as nature calls, the
rocking movement still offers some unexplained satisfaction. Is it the child in
me afraid to ask to do what I need to do?
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