‘Where does this go?’
‘Where does THIS go?’
‘WHERE DOES THIS GO?’
Lizzie has asked Jake to empty the dishwasher… and now, every time Jake takes something out of the dishwasher to put away, he loudly asks:
‘WHERE DOES THIS GO?’
He’s also taking out one thing at a time, so it’s taking ages.
‘WHERE DOES THIS GO?’ asks Jake, holding up a tea strainer from the cutlery rack.
He probably genuinely doesn’t know where half these things go (it’s not like he’s a habitual emptier of the dishwasher). But Jake is also as sly as a fox (a dox?). And he knows if he makes as much of a meal as possible, out of doing this chore, it’ll reduce the chances of him having to do it again.
‘WHERE DOES THIS GO?’ he asks about a wooden spoon… even though there’s a jug full of wooden spoons right in front of him.
Of course, we parents must teach our kids to be helpful around the house. But if supervising their ‘helpfulness’ actually takes more effort than doing the job yourself, I usually plump for the latter.
Jake finally goes, a lifetime later, and – with some relief – Lizzie and I finish tidying up the kitchen, and re-filling the dishwasher, ourselves.
‘I’ve just been listening to cancer porn!’ Lizzie suddenly says, as I scrape the kids’ leftovers off their plates.
‘Huh?’ I reply.
‘It’s a podcast,’ Lizzie – who’s now folding dishcloths – continues. ‘It’s not actually called Cancer Porn. But that’s what it is: porn for cancer sufferers. I haven’t been able to stop listening to it!’
‘What’s it about?’ I ask, having no idea where this is going.
‘It’s about a teacher, who’s had ovarian cancer, like me,’ says Lizzie. ‘She had a pain in her abdomen, like me, and she kept on going to the doctor about it, like me… and they kept on missing the cancer… and missing it… and missing it…’
Lizzie takes a breath.
‘… and missing it…’
‘… and missing it…’
I want to say, ‘I get the idea’, but I don’t want to seem rude.
‘… and missing it…’ says Lizzie. ‘It got to the point where she was passing out at work, because of her cancer, and they were having to call ambulances for her. And still her doctors carried on missing it…’
‘… and missing it…’ I chime in.
‘And,’ concludes Lizzie, ‘do you know what stage ovarian cancer she had, when she was finally diagnosed?’
Hmm. It’s not going to be a low number is it? I think. ‘Stage 4?’ I venture.
‘Stage 3C,’ says Lizzie, almost triumphantly. ‘The same as me!’
‘You’re like the teacher in Cancer Porn!’ I say.
‘It’s not actually called that,’ replies Lizzie.
She finishes folding the dishcloths and puts them in their drawer.
‘So, I guess the one difference between me and the teacher was that I wasn’t passing out all the time.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Although you were in a bad way, before you were diagnosed. You seemed to be in pain a lot.’
Lizzie grimaces and nods, not enjoying the memory.
‘Anyway,’ she finishes, ‘I can’t stop listening to this podcast. It’s totally stressful but also totally compulsive.’
‘But,’ she repeats for emphasis, ‘totally stressful.’
‘Hmm,’ I say, as I shut the door of the refilled dishwasher. ‘Maybe you should try listening to soothing music instead?’
Lizzie shrugs. ‘Maybe I should!’
Moments later, she’s back at her desk – headphones on – utterly immersed once again in her cancer porn.
P. D. Clifton 
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