For The Glove Of…

I was lying in bed this morning, while Carole quietly went about her morning routine. Quietly plugging in the hair dryer, for example. Quietly drying her hair with the hair dryer. Quietly turning on lights.

You know, all that sort of stuff.

I don’t fight it anymore, I just roll with it and figure that once she’s left the house I can just nod off again anyway, so I lie in bed and drink in the joys of YouTube, or the news. Or Star Trek Discovery until it decided to have a mid-season break until January. Bloody January. That’s literally next year. I can’t wait that long.

Anyway, this morning was a bit different because Carole came to tell me she’d done a bad thing. In a bid to be organised she had, just this very morning, labelled her rubber gloves. Not, as you may suspect, to indicate which is the right and which is the left. But, instead, to show which were for washing up and which were for cleaning. Had she been thoroughly trained, as I was, in the art of hospital cleaning she would know the easiest way to do this is with different coloured gloves. But, in the absence of that, a biro is just handy to write “cleaning” or “washing up” on them.

Job done.

Except the biro transferred from the glove to the worktop.

And despite a liberal application of elbow grease, Carole could not shift it. So she buggered off to work and left me to deal with it. I thought I might have to break out the nail varnish remover. I thought it would take me a while to deal with.

But then I nodded off for a little bit and forgot all about it.

I eventually dealt with it while I was in the kitchen preparing our evening meal. I just wiped it with a dishcloth. And it went. Just like that. I didn’t put anything on it. I didn’t treat it with gallons of Flash like Carole had this morning. I just wiped it. I can only assume that all the stuff she threw at it had just worked at the ink during the course of the day and I just happened to be the lucky person who got to wipe it away. Like if you leave a particularly foody dish in the washing up water for a while and when you come back everything just sort of falls off.

I mean, I won’t tell Carole that. I can’t have thinking that this sort of graffiti isn’t hard to remove, otherwise she’ll start tagging everything like a modern-day Banksy or, worse, just leaving her rubber gloves around transferring ink all over the place.

The next time you see me, I might have the word “cleaning” printed backwards somewhere on my body.