Ah, my day, it is not progressing in a satisfactorily productive manner. So I shall give myself a coffee break and tell a story of a memory I randomly remembered…
When I was once a little kid, say five or seven, I heard told the Cinderella fairytale. Somehow, I must have misunderstood, because I thought the moral of the story was that Cinderella was beautiful because she did lots of housework and therefore deserved to marry the Prince. I came to the logical conclusion that if I did a lot of housework, I would grow up to be beautiful too. As a result of this, I did the dishes for the first time in my young life, then marched off to where my parents were in the living room, to inquire as to whether they detected a discernible improvement in my features.
They laughed and said, yes, it did seem that I had become a little prettier. I didn’t realise why they were laughing until years later.
I’m surprised they didn’t keep milking it for all it was worth. I would have.