‘Ouch, that looks sore,’ says G-, sympathetically.
‘It is,’ I say.
[I've done manual work in my time and had the scars on my hands to prove it. Blisters, dermatitis, cuts and grazes - you name it.
But the housework that goes along with parenting is unending! Water and towels. Water and towels. Washing. Drying. Cleaning. Scrubbing. Tidying. Undressing. Cleaning. Dressing. Washing again.
Your skin gets dryer and dryer. Eventually it splits and cracks and, each time you knock your hands against cold utensils, wicker baskets, sharp cutlery, it's exquisitely painful. Mainly because you can't stop doing what you're doing.]
‘Yes, I had that for ages when I was looking after S- all the time,’ says G-.
‘Did you? I didn’t notice …’
‘No, but I didn’t make a song and dance about it’ she says, meaningfully.
‘Oh. Er.’
‘Just moisturise. Keep moisturising.’
