Wash that man...

At approximately 11.27am yesterday, a washing machine repair man draped a black cloth over his bald pate and sentenced my faithful washing machine to death by scrap yard.  I had been expecting this verdict, and had put off calling Washing Machine Paul out to take a look, preferring to risk life and limb by carrying on using it.  Mind you, the noise the bloody thing was making was so loud, that I had resorted to only putting it on when I went out.  You know, out of sight and all that.

Well apparently, my drum is cracked.  According to WMP, this is down to either a screw or coin getting lodged somewhere inappropriate.  Ladies, I am sure that you can imagine exactly in whose direction I was glaring virtually when this information was imparted to me.  Why would I have screws in my trousers?  Actually, why would I have coins either now I come to think about it?  I have children, therefore my pockets are usually empty (along with my purse, bag and bank account).

Apparently, the drum could have 'gone' (technical term I believe) at any moment, and if it had, then my ground floor would have resembled a paddling pool, such would be the flooding capacity of something attached to the mains water supply.  So the washing machine was grounded yesterday, with three loads already on standby.

I called the husband, and through gritted teeth gave him the joyful news about the machine.  When I mentioned the screw theory, he was (far too) quick to say that, 'No way could a screw do that'.  So all of a sudden, the husband is a washing machine engineer.  I wish he'd told me that before, as I could have saved myself £55 for a two minute visit by WMP. 

So a most pleasant hour was spent trawling the internet looking for a new washing machine.  Boy have they changed in ten years.  All I want mine to do is wash stuff and spin it long enough so that I can actually lift it out of the machine without giving myself a hernia, but for some reason, the washing machine inventors of this world have decided that we need more features, like a timer, and the rather confusing Baby Programme.  I can't imagine that the Baby Programme will be relevant to me, mainly for two reasons.  Firstly, I have no babies, and secondly, by the time any of my children produce grandbabies, this new machine will probably have died a noisy death.  But I eventually picked one, which is being delivered tomorrow.

While I was choosing which one I wanted, I called the husband to ask whether he wanted me to pay for installation and removal.  'Well of course not', he said indignantly, 'I can do all that.  I can't believe you even have to ask'.

He then went on to say something so daft, I may never recover from the shock.

'There's no mad rush to buy it is there?'

Well, as someone who is currently looking at three loads of dirty washing, with four more heading my way by Sunday, I feel that 'mad rush' would be the slowest speed I would want to be going at to get it ordered.  'Break neck' might just cover it I think. 

Of course, I could take the company up on their offer of installation and removal.  At £49 for both services, it's a decent price.

I'm assuming that there's no small print as to what (or who) they remove...


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