Plughole Theology

My least favourite household job is pulling hair, and associated gunk, out of the plughole in the bath. Ugh. Marie, my former housemate, knew it was my least favourite job. Whenever it was my turn to clean the bathroom, she insisted on dealing with the plughole on my behalf.

Marie no longer lives with us – she’s now halfway round the world in South Korea – so I must tackle the dreaded plughole myself. Today was one such day. But something strange happened. As I picked at the hairs protruding from the plughole, I found myself thinking of Marie. As I pulled on the strands until the globs of unpleasantness emerged, I remembered how she had done this for me many times. And as I piled up the soggy clumps, I reflected on where she is now and how she’s doing and our time together here.

Because Marie had done this yucky job for me, doing it myself reminded me of her and our friendship and, because I was thinking of that, I could keep at the picking and pulling and piling without minding it quite so much. Because Marie pulled matted hairs out of a gunky plughole for me, I can pull matted hairs out of a gunky plughole for others!

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