Sunday, 10 June 2012
Rage Against the (Washing) Machine
Our lovely little camera that we bought 6 years ago to document our first days as parents has been replaced by a Digital SLR monstrosity. So large it requires it's own handbag, so complicated the instruction book could prop up a wonky table, so expensive it cannot be taken to the beach for fear sand will get into it. Once cradled and cooed over it now stays in a cupboard, gets an airing on birthdays and Christmas and everything else is snapped by my (easy to use, portable, light, sea-side proof) phone.
The lawn mower is gigantic, petrol powered, and requires Popeye to pull the rip-cord. On the ocassions where I have tried to use it I have been hauled up the garden like a 3 year old trying to walk a whippet that's just seen a rabbit. It is a man's machine and I am not Hulk Hogan. Complain away husband that I do not mow the lawn, or by me a Flymo and I will happily oblige.
There are other things - the thermostats for the 3 different heating systems we have, the hi-fi (do people still use that term?) in our bedroom and the television. I am afraid to be left in the house on my own, for fear of contracting hypothermia but no-one will be able to reach me because the lawn will have reclaimed the path and grown up the front door.
So when it came to replacing the washing machine there was no way that decision wasn't going to be mine.
The new addition to our kitchen is simple, elegant and does exactly what you need it to do. And whilst I might perish because I couldn't work the oven or heat the house, when the paramedics finally cut their way to the front door with a scythe, they will find me in pristine knickers!