There's something soothing about plunging your hands into hot water. More so in winter, when, at least for me, the intial sensation often sends a rather pleasurable tingle down my spine and into my arms -- if it's particularly potent, right down to my calves. No idea what that is, but I like it.

The tangy citrus scent of the dishwashing liquid as it enters the sink and churns to a froth under the pouring stream. And that froth! White and clear, yet somehow studded with blue and red and green and turquoise iridescence. You could get lots in the colours.

Swirling the wet cloth across ceramic plates, working it along the tines of a fork, those are tactile experiences, experiences to be savoured. The undulation of the cloth in the water -- visual sensuality. Even the sounds, the muted rattling of cutlery under the water, the tap of china against glass bring pleasure.

And then, pulling the dish, clean and dripping, from the water, watching the water curl across its surface and away, the steam rising, the plate newly-minted and angled perfectly amidst its peers in the drying rack.

If you think about it the right way, it's a glorious medly of sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

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I tried.

I really, really tried.

But I still hate doing dishes.