Much of army life seems to be about cleaning. Weapons, bathrooms, hallways, clothes, boots. Especially boots. And weapons. Films really have it all wrong with their images of pristine, well-stocked armouries.

Armoury—my foot.

Once you've been given your rifle you don't let it out of your sight. And keeping it in the state it's accustomed to isn't as easy as it looks. Not when they drag you through the mud during physical training. After that it can take an hour or more to get the thing shining again.

At least, cleaning a rifle is sort of entertaining. It's new and intriguing and you have to remember to do things in the right order. Like cooking, in a way.

Doing laundry isn't nearly so much fun. Some of the younger guys here have clearly never been away from home. Some even struggle to work a washing machine or fold laundry. There's something positive to be said about growing up in a large family or living in a tiny flat with a four other guys. There's always laundry that needs doing and you work it out pretty fast or end up stealing each other's stuff.

Boots, though, boots are an entirely different matter.

Why the hell do I need to be able to see myself in my boots? We do have mirrors, and seeing we're all running around with shaved heads and makeup is a dirty word… why do we even need those? And yet, every night I do laundry and then sit down to polish my boots until someone can see their stupid face in them.

Well, I suppose it's a career alternative for when I'm done here.