Bless me Father.
It has now been nearly a week since I had a washing machine.
We bought a new washing machine when we moved into this house.
It is not my favourite, or my best.
Jason chose it, for truly I am really not that bothered about washing machines until they come in rainbow colours, possibly with unicorn horns, and maybe wheels and a seat.
They are such dull objects.
As with all things technological, they get more and more complex, so that by the time I am an old aged mentioner I simply will not be able to use them at all, and will have to resort to either a) beating all my clothes on a rock in the stream I do not have or b) wearing paper clothes and burning them at the end of every day.
Possibly, by that time, my facial hair will have grown so luxurious I will simply be able to weave myself a living onesie and eschew clothes altogether.
In the meantime, this machine has ninety six different settings. It beeps and whirs and makes strange pinging noises.
It would, for my husband, who loves technology, bought it, and these are the sort of things he approves of.
Were it left to me, it would be silent but deadly and only have two settings; a 40 degree wash, and a 60 degree wash for things worn by small boys and men who dress up as orcs. It would have a drum the size of Cheshire.
The children assure me that when it is working and you turn it on, the current washing machine makes the same noise as at the start of a race in Mario Kart.
I believe them. This does not endear me to either them or the washing machine.
Last week, the washing machine, mid-cycle went ‘erk’. This was a new and entirely unwelcome sound in its repertoire.
It stopped in mid swoosh, with clothes and water still locked inside it.
I found Jason paying homage to it, kneeling in front of the control panel, poking at it, whilst simultaneously watching a YouTube clip of a woman with one of those aiming to be soothing yet massively irritating voices, pointing out what could be wrong with the machine.
It appears there was something wrong with the filter.
He manfully struggled on, to discover that what was wrong with the filter was a party balloon that Oscar had accidentally left in his trouser pocket, which was strangling the filter pipe.
He unwrapped the balloon from the pipe, reconnected the machine and then sat back awaiting Mario-like pinging with the satisfaction of a man who has dragged a mastodon to the cave and now expects you to create stroganoff for his tea.
The machine whirred and hummed, and stayed on a seven minute spin cycle for forty five minutes while we all became hypnotised as we followed its endless progress round and round.
Then it went ‘erk’.
Back to our lady of the washing powder and her YouTube magic.
The third time around, the washing machine went ‘erk’ and jammed shut with all our wet washing inside it.
This was when we called the company – as the machine is still under warranty.
The lady on the phone, who was probably the twin sister of the woman on YouTube went:
Eventually it was agreed they would try to come out this Wednesday, but you know, there are stuff, and then the things, and this may cause issues, so, well, you know.
We managed to get the washing machine door open on Friday, without drowning the entire utility room floor.
The clothes smell like a post apocalyptic wasteland – which is nice.
I am taking them to mother’s.