There was a day when the washing machine decided to display an error message. It was a Saturday. Birds chattered in the trees outside. A couple of visitors were coming over to critique the state of my furniture and interior decorating choices. There were many things to do. There wasn’t enough time to visit a repair person or find another machine.
The thought of connecting my foot with this innocent looking machine sent a jolt of joy to my demeanour. I thought how lovely it would be to throw this machine at my visitors when they walked into my home to inspect and patronise me and mine so ardently.
Standing in front of my trusty steed of a washing machine, I could do nothing but think about how the washing would be washed. Would it be by some divine hand that the clothes would become wet and clean? Would there be another option, such as a personal servant? Would I simply give up and throw them out the front door?
This error message jolted me from a life of comfortable bliss, in which the clothes went into a machine and then came out smelling sweet and feeling wet yet dry. Now I’m faced with manually scrubbing the little beasts with my hands, wood, kitchen utensils, perhaps the dishwasher, or god knows what else?
That day I realised that the washing machine of my life keeps fucking with my clothes.