There is a point when washing up ceases to be fun and it is at the precise moment when the last morsel is swallowed down and the purveyor of said swallow declares themselves 'Stuffed'. When the meal ends, when all that is left is to praise the chef and request tea or coffee, that's when washing up ceases to be fun. It's not so much the act of washing up that bother's me, more the never ending predictability of it. The knowledge that as soon as it is finished, more will be on it's way, and possibly within the hour. And it's not like other forms of domestic tedium: it's quite startling just how much dust one can live comfortably with without needing anti-parasitic creams, and unvacuumed floors can be strategically ignored just by keeping shoes on whilst in the house (or by utilising stilts in extreme cases). But unless you are rich enough to either have all your meals out, or laugh in the face of environmental apocalypse by using, and throwing away, paper plates (or you are rich enough to throw a complete dinner service away after each meal: oh how very Greek Tourist Trap of you), you will need to wash up. I have heard people make mention of getting the children to do the washing up: "They love it!" they will cry, "Kids love playing with water!" and that's the problem: plates and pans do not get clean by lil' Bobby playing 'Das Boot' with a pint bottle. (Do kids play 'Das Boot'? They should.)
And I know what you're all thinking: "Get a dishwasher!" Well, apart from the logistics (i.e. we'd have to dangle it from the ceiling, space, or rather lack of, being of prime concern in Casa yumptatious), I suspect that the drudgery would remain: it would still need to be loaded, it would still need to be emptied. It would still need a periodic cleaning with some highly toxic and nasal-hair-singeing ablution. Just as washing machines have taken away the need for 'Wash day' by eradicating the need for excessive handwashing, it is still depressingly inevitable that a wash needs to be put on. Machines don't erase the problem, they just give it a different shape.
Having said all that, there is a certain satisfaction when the job is done, a feeling akin, I would imagine, to the one felt by someone burying the man they've just killed.
It's your turn to dry.