Whose Job Is It?

Hana and I share a small flat in East London, and on Saturdays we have to clean it together. We made a list, but somehow she always picks the easy jobs.

“Okay,” Hana said, looking at the list. “I'll do upstairs. You do downstairs.”

“Upstairs is just the two bedrooms,” I said. “Downstairs is the kitchen, the living room, and the bathroom. That's not fair.”

“But I have to brush the stairs too,” she said. “The stairs are hard work.”

I wasn't going to win this one. I started in the kitchen. I had to wash all the dishes from the week, then tidy the table and the shelves. I could hear Hana upstairs, but it was very quiet up there.

After an hour, I went up to check. Hana was lying on her bed with her phone.

“The bedrooms tidy themselves now?” I asked.

“I'm resting,” she said. “Cleaning is tiring.”

I looked at her room. The washing was still on the floor. The bed was a mess.

“Right,” I said. “Next Saturday, I pick the jobs.”