And Another Thing | 18 March 2008

I have no objection to washing up. I prefer it to most other chores. When I was very small my mother allowed me to ‘help’ with the washing up. This meant doing the drying. I got praise for the thorough and conscientious way I did it, polishing the delicate pieces of old china till they reflected the light. My mother had a gift for making all dull jobs seem important and requiring craftsmanship. She said: ‘You’re a first-class dryer now.’ I preferred it to washing up in those days. Now it’s the reverse. I like putting on a big striped apron and taking over the sink. Normally the dishwasher takes all we use, but if there are a lot of guests I come into my own, dealing with the big saucepans and messy dishes, scouring with wire wool pads and brushes, handling expertly the silver forks and spoons, and making sure the wineglasses are properly and safely washed — afterwards drying them until they shine.

As I work, I sing old French advertising ditties I remember from the early 1950s, such as ‘Omo est là: la saleté s’en va!’ And I think of George Orwell. His Down and Out in Paris and London, a description of his extreme poverty in 1931–32, at the beginning of the Big Slump, and the terrible jobs he had to take just to stay alive, is his best book in my view, and certainly my favourite one of his. He had the inquisitive policeman’s nose for detail, and a deadpan way of setting it down. Among his other gruesome occupations was that of plongeur in the big Paris hotels, and later in a restaurant. The plongeur was the lowest male form of life in the catering trade.