For ten months we kicked it. Not gentle nudges with our toes but BAM, BAM, BAM. Horse kicks they were, kind of like The Fonz from Happy Days getting his juke box started but in a far more threatening manner. It was the only way. The Macine wouldn’t start otherwise and we still needed to do washing. So that’s how each load of washing would start. A firm kick (or twenty) to the door and we were away.
I knew we were doing things a little differently when playing out in the courtyard one afternoon, a little baby leg swung towards our washing machine as she went passed. It’s what she had always seen, that’s what you did to washing machines. We kept kicking at it until finally the day came and The Machine wouldn’t cough up my clothing. I tried, I yanked, I pretended I didn’t care. I pressed all the buttons, and left it until the next day. The next day The Machine decided to start again, but not before it had washed the same load for about 3 hours. Given that I could now see what looked like chocolate milk water in there, I seriously doubted whether my machine still held a committment to cleaning my clothes. Finally he coughed open the door, in an over the top Italian soccer player dramatic manner. Pahh! Have your clothes lady!
I silently picked the filthy clothes up, took them back inside and closed the door. Half an hour later I had bought a new machine online, with it being delivered the next day, (benefits of living in a big city).
Now, I had already done all my washing machine research last year when the kicking had begun, I knew what I wanted. I had read all the reviews and had thoroughly crossed my computer eyes, making Mr Chocolate’s ears bleed at the continued conversation over what machine to get. I’d done all of that. I had just been biding my time until The Machine finally died.
9.10am the next day and The German* arrived. Delivered all bright and shiny, and with this would be living inside. Inside! I can’t tell you how exciting that is after 13 years of shared outside laundries. Sure. I don’t have great access to my cooking pots now, BUT I do have a washing machine inside, and if you don’t mind I think I’ll go take my German inspired lunch** and go watch another load go round.
** Ok, so the Rueben Sandwich has got nothing to do with Germany, but it does have sauerkraut in it, and there will be more on that in another post soon.
Vegetarian Reuben Sandwich