Picture, if you will, your typical Christmas lunch. Or, to be more precise, the second act. Once all the turkey has been gobbled and the ham has been hogged; once the pav has been polished off and the pudding plundered, the crackers pulled and the paper hats donned, it’s time to sit back and enjoy the company of family and friends. To drink, relax and enjoy the long, luxurious afternoon ahead. However, for some amongst your number, now is not a time to rest one’s loins, but to gird them. 

You see, at a certain point during those leisurely postprandial moments, as if by some secret unspoken signal, a small group of people will silently make their way from the table to the kitchen. Here, armed only with their bare hands and a few tea towels, they will – without fanfare – begin the momentous task of cleaning up. What makes this hushed transition most notable, though, is that this elite company of washers and wipers is always made up of the same people. Every. Single. Year. 

They of the dishpan hands and gravy-spattered trousers. They’re the forgotten heroes of Christmas. The quiet achievers. The true believers of a well-stacked dishwasher. And they’ve had a gutful.

Why is it that these same people end up doing the Christmas washing up every year? Is it because they’re people-pleasers? (“Oh, I don’t mind,” they say sweetly through gritted teeth, as their hands unconsciously tie their tea towel into something that resembles a noose.) 

Is it because they’re trying to avoid Great Aunt Judy’s blow-by-blow account of her latest hip replacement? (Not a chance. She’ll still pop by, sherry glass in hand, to regale them while they’re elbow-deep in that roasting pan.)

Or is it simply because if they didn’t do it, nobody else would? We reckon that, for the most part, it’s the latter. It’s time to lift your game, everybody else. And it’s time you got schooled. 

Look, we’re not expecting you all to rush headlong into the kitchen as soon as the last fork has been laid down, like some mad throng of dishmop-wielding bedlamites. Too many cooks and all that. (Speaking of cooks, if you’re the one who’s been slaving in the kitchen all morning, you’re automatically excused.) But there are many things that you can do to lighten – or share – the load. So here are some helpful suggestions, to nudge you in a more (ahem) supportive direction.

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1. Don’t be a dish douche. When you’ve finished your meal, don’t just leave your plate of leftover Christmas goo sitting there, congealing and gathering flies. Go and scrape those gammy bits into the bin, then stack your plate by the sink, like a regular member of society. If you really want to go wild, you could even rinse it first.
2. Befriend the resident dog. You mean you haven’t already? You cold-hearted brute. No wonder you’re not in there doing the washing up. The dog holds the key, my friend. Not to eternal life or anything mundane like that. But they sure can clear a plate like nobody’s business. And if you’d known this, you could have skipped all that onerous scraping and rinsing in suggestion number one.
3. Empty the bins. Repeated scraping of (non-dog-friendly) scraps and napkins, along with all those bottles of various descriptions being consumed, fills up household bins fast. So tidy up that kitchen tidy, recycle that recycling container, and carry that load outside to the big bins. Hot tip: this activity is best timed for whenever the table talk turns to a) politics; b) religion; or c) the latest season of The Crown.
4. Guilt the kids into pitching in. This will probably work especially well if your present to them this year was Taylor Swift tickets. Those who giveth can also taketh away…
5. Make a game of it. Roll some dice, spin a bottle, pin a tail on Uncle Don. Whatever you choose, use your game to break up the chores into mini tasks. For each turn, whoever loses gets one cleaning job. If they refuse, they have to forfeit their Taylor Swift tickets. (See kids? I’m on to you.)
   
6. Quietly step in. Just as our heroes did, you too can shoulder some of the burden without expecting any gratitude. Wait for a break in the proceedings, perhaps when they’re surreptitiously wiping away a tear with their rubber-gloved hand, then pass them a glass of bubbles and say, “Thanks. Why don’t I take over for a bit? You go and sit down.” And get to work. But a caveat: stay too long at that sink and woe betide! Before you know it, you too will become a fully-fledged member of Team Dishpan Hands. And once that happens, Christmas Day as you know it will never be the same again. Ho ho ho.

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