Washing Machine-Gate

Last week our washing machine broke, which was rather annoying.

I don’t think you ever realise just how much you use something until it’s not there to be used.  I had no choice but to leap straight online to order a replacement, adding the extra (very necessary and very expensive) service of installation and removal of the old machine.

With almost a week’s worth of washing waiting patiently to go for a spin, I was counting down the hours, minutes and seconds until the delivery men arrived on Thursday morning.  I had 3 baskets of dirty laundry, all organised into whites, colours and delicates – all raring and ready to go.  This was going to be the best. day. ever. 

As the delivery van backed into my driveway, I could barely contain my excitement.  They’d arrived nice and early, so I could get the maximum use of my new best friend on my day off.  I watched as one of the men lowered the machine out of the van, at one point dropping it on its side – thank goodness for protective packaging!  I led the other man through to the kitchen, which I’d spent the morning clearing and tidying so that nothing could get in the way. 

“Hmm, is that a dishwasher?”  the man asked, looking from the (glaringly obvious) dishwasher to me with a look of panic on his face.

“Er… yes.  Is that a problem?” I asked, beginning to panic myself and trying desperately to hide that fact.

“Well, it’s right in the way of the pipes, I don’t think I’m going to be able to do this.”

He proceeded to rummage around in the cupboard under the sink and, with the arrival of his colleague, I decided to leave them to it for a bit.  I sat in the living room, debating whether or not I should put the TV on for background noise, or offer the men a drink, or pretend to look at my phone to mask the fact that I was straining to hear every word and grunt that issued from the 2 men in my kitchen.  Surely they had come across kitchens with dishwashers before, surely they’d find a way of making this work.  Surely, surely, surely.

“Um, I don’t suppose you have a bowl or a saucepan or something, do you?” the first man called to me.  “The pipe might leak a bit when we pull it out.”

I grabbed the only saucepan I could find and hoped it would do the job. 

Back in the living room I was somewhat alarmed to hear an “Oops,” followed by, “That’s not right,” followed by the sudden sound of gushing water loud enough to rival the most Niagara-esque of falls.

“Er, I don’t suppose you have a towel, or a couple of towels, or something, do you?”

Not daring to look at the mess being made in my kitchen, I staggered up the stairs and yanked open the airing cupboard.  I grabbed a towel and the entire contents of the cupboard fell on top of me, you know, just to make this day even better.  Barely able to stand, I managed to shuffle down the stairs with a handful of towels, which I threw over the river now wending its way across my kitchen floor. 

“I’m really sorry, but we can’t do this, you’ll have to get a plumber in.”

And with that, the men splashed across the kitchen, asked me to sign a form to confirm that they had failed to install the washing machine, and drove off in their van, leaving me with a week’s worth of washing, a flooded kitchen floor, a basket full of dirty, sodden towels and no way of washing any of it.

As I sat, contemplating the situation, I could feel my MS flaring.  Stress’ll do that.