**Diary Entry**
I come from a modest, large family, but even we never had anything like this! In my house, everyone eats from their own plate, and we take turns washing up. Just last year, my parents finally bought a dishwasher. So when I visited my boyfriend’s family and saw how things worked there, I was completely stunned.
My boyfriend, let’s call him Oliver, invited me over to meet his parents. They live in a cosy little house with a garden in a small town in the countryside. I was excited—we’d been together for months, and things felt serious. His mum, let’s say Margaret, welcomed me warmly, offering tea and a homemade cake while chatting about life. His dad, whom I’ll call Richard, was just as lovely, cracking jokes and telling stories from his youth. First impressions were perfect.
Then came dinner, and everything took a turn. When we sat down at the table, I noticed just one large pot of potatoes, a bowl of salad, and—unbelievably—one deep plate. I assumed it was for serving, but no. Margaret dished up some potatoes and meat, added salad, and started eating. Then she passed the plate to Richard, who took his share and ate from it too. Next, it went to Oliver, and finally to me. I sat there frozen, unsure how to react. At home, we’ve always had our own plates—sharing one like this was unthinkable.
I tried to hide my shock, but I must’ve failed because Oliver whispered, “It’s just how we do things here, don’t worry.” How could I not worry? I took a small portion, trying not to think about who’d eaten from that plate before me. Margaret, noticing my discomfort, chuckled, “Saves washing up—efficient, isn’t it?” I forced a smile, but my mind was screaming, *How is this normal?*
After dinner, I hoped it was a one-off, but no. When it came to washing up, they barely rinsed the plate before putting it away. The pot and salad bowl got the same treatment. I offered to help, but they insisted, “Guests don’t do the dishes.” Nice as that was, I’d have gladly scrubbed everything myself for peace of mind.
The next morning was even stranger. Richard made scrambled eggs, then tossed the shells… straight onto the kitchen floor, where a small pile of rubbish was growing. “We’ll clear it later,” he said casually. Later never came. Peels, milk cartons, even used tissues kept landing there. Margaret explained they cleaned it up once a week to “save time.” I was horrified—at home, we take the bins out daily, and the kitchen sparkles.
Oliver, seeing my dismay, tried to reassure me. “Just our way,” he said. But how could *anyone* think sharing plates and living with a trash pile was normal? I bit my tongue—their house, their rules—but inside, I was screaming.
After a couple of days, I left with relief. Back home, I hugged our dishwasher and savoured a meal on my own plate. Oliver and I are still together, but I’ve made it clear: future visits to his parents will be short. He actually admitted he finds their habits embarrassing too.
The whole thing made me realise how differently people live. I’m not saying their way is wrong—it’s just *not* for me. Now, when we talk about moving in together, I’m firm: we’ll have our own crockery, take the bins out daily, and yes, a dishwasher is non-negotiable. And you know what? He agrees.
