A friend’s Facebook post this a.m reminded me of the pain one feels when losing a long term friend. This long term companion is still with me, but she (aren’t all such friends always female?) is of an advanced age. She and her partner, the rarely used clothes dryer, have been friends to me since 2001. She has been able to take on tough responsibilities, and I am talking ten pairs of adult jeans and a household’s worth of sand encrusted towels after a beach holiday. She has also seen me through a few delicate situations! She has even been my silent shoulder, stoically humming through her duties as I stood, a hand on her stout form, oblivious to all but my thoughts, surrounded by tropical rain drumming down on the outside laundry in Darwin.
I mean of course my trusty Fisher and Paykel washing machine. She has stood by, I imagine with an amused look on her white enamelled visage, as new-fangled see-through kettles and retro-styled toasters fell by the roadside, harakiri-ing themselves at the sight of yet another cup of Orange Pekoe or curried egg toastie. She must be grinning widely now, as I prepare today to meet a tradie who is coming around to give a good looking over to our resident primadonna. This is our dishwasher, a spoilt super model whom we have known for the past two and half years. Like a true memsahib, she seizes up whenever the volume of Indian food passing through her is increased, as is the case when my parents visit. We have to use special wipes on her to keep her steely smirk in place and nothing but Finish Diamond tablets will keep her regular. I have been doing the dishes with help from my mother for the past five days, all for the sake of an extended warranty on her upkeep. A good tradie is hard to find and the warranty has meant the rigmarole of going through a call centre in the Philippines. Someone once told me a hard man was good to find. A hard man would possibly have turned up sooner than the five days it is taking for this particular fellow, this spin doctor, this wizard of washing up, to visit us.
Of course, I have thought of applying some good old West African juju on the dishwasher and showing her a photo of the washing machine. That ought to shame her! Or better still, do the dishes in the washing machine..something that I would not recommend to anyone else, ever since I found that one of the children had simply rolled up a tablecloth with three side plates and put the thing on max wash.
The pieces are put away for the mosaic garden bench I promise to make for myself, when I am older. 🙂
Now for that good hard man and his toolbox!