When you were fired, we stayed up late into the night drinking Guinness and whisky. Futurist fogeys plotting a cure for all they abhor, roasting prime fat princes and their flunkies over coals, we were nearly undone at agenda item three; there was a notable lack of ditches, also large-bosomed car whose warm presences were designed to remind us of sudanese nurses we never actually had. (See Manifesto for details). Ionesco came to our rescue. We made do with fulmination. I'm not doing the dishes as an excuse to listen to the new Tchaikovsky you know, or because I have nothing better to do; I'm at this sink because though nature abhors a vacuum, she's all diversity and inclusion with regard to Suds, Scrubber and Mop LLP. Is it my turn to do them? Is this right? Is this fair? Is this just? The Supreme Court will one day decide. As my hands warm to the water, my heart opens and my mind drifts to a scene where I lie on a palliasse, a straw mattress, whence I am fixing to fly. Like a patriarch from Thackeray, I call my family to me. They whisper, awed by their understanding that even the greatest of greats must have his sell-by date. In the feeble light of guttering candles I mutter, "I bequeath my worldly goods." They draw closer. My voice is not strong, "to you whose love has been mine..." There are audible sighs. With feeble wave of gnarléd hand, I prepare to draw my final breath, indicate that a single question holds me from my journey. They draw closer yet. I wipe my mouth with handy prop, a carefully-ironed hankie, raise my head the small height that remains with my power, smile, "And who will do the dishes now?" David Ritchie, Portland, Oregon ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html