I revel in the beauty of a clean plastic container and enjoy doling out lunch-sized portions of leftovers more than is probably normal. But I
can’t don’t wash them out. When I arrive home in the evening that’s the last thing I want to do. It’s tempting to say it’s the last thing on my mind but that would be a big, downright, stinking lie.
I do think about it.
I open my bag, take out the container, look at the thin layer of tomato-based sauce or dressing or whatever made my lunch so darn tasty, think how I really should wash it out straight away and save myself from a whole world of pain a week or so from now when I’ve run out of exquisitely clean containers and am forced to face the consequences of my laziness and exorcise the mouldy bastard demons by way of searing hot water and red apple detergent… and finally decide I’ve got other, more pressing matters to attend to and thoughtfully leave the container near the sink to ferment.