The Rise of the Machines
In some respects, today has not gone well.
I had been thinking that the washing machine was getting less than fresh. I decided to deal with it. I got a bottle of bleach and gave a wee scoot of bleach into the gray seal bit that I suspected was harbouring toxic gunk that I didn’t quite have the stomach for so early in the morning.
I cranked the dial up to hot and switched it on and went to have a shower. I left a post-it note marked “Bleach!” on the front of the machine so as to alert husband that right then would not be a good moment to stick in a pair of black jeans for a wee wash.
Imagine my irritation when he comes asking what I have put in the washing machine. I think, duh, it’s bleach. Like what it says on the label.
Little did I know he couldn’t get near enough the machine to read the aforementioned label, what with the sea of bleachy foam spreading freely across the laundry-porch floor.
I pressed all manner of buttons: spin, rinse, drain…. spin? …. spin again? …. rinse?… turn the thing off? Panic, panic, mop, panic, cloths, panic ,rinse, drain…
Eventually I coaxed the majority of the foam into the mop bucket and dampened down the rest with a rag.
Sigh of relief.
Better still – it was still early. What better way to get ahead of oneself than to start preparing the lunch? I was going to have a short turnaround between church and Walk-Thru-the-New-Testament – so I chopped my onion, chopped my leeks, chopped my potatoes and set them aside in a victorious moment of efficiency; took my violin in hand and skipped off to church in my gloriously mended car – my mood only dipping slightly as I stepped over the evidence of the bleach failure in the porch.
So, after church I sped home, looking forward to happening upon my neatly diced veg, cracking open my new James Martin blender and whizzing up some leek and potato soup.
As the soup boiled up, I read the instructions closely, washed the constituent elements (apart from the bit that is not to be submerged in water and only ever wiped with a damp cloth) and built it up.
A thing of beauty and a joy forever.
After giving the children the “Never Touch This” lecture, I decided to thwart one of the rules which said that no hot ingredients should go in it. I though to myself: eh, duh, they can’t mean that – its primary function is to whizz soup! So I ladled in some soup and whizzed away.
Brilliant. Whizzing function flawless, and the heat of the soup didn’t crack the glass – as it suddenly occurred to me that it might.
I then went to unlock the goblet thing to decant the soup into a pan.
I pulled the handle round, and it didn’t seem to unlock.
I pushed the handle further, fully expecting the juggy bit to come away in my hand – and it did – only it left the blades – and all the soup came whooshing out the bottom of the now bottomless jug into a flood of green ectoplasm all over the worktop.
A flood of hot soup spread greenly and widely as I sacrificed tea towel after kitchen roll into mopping it up, trying to corral it into a wipeable area.
The main body unit thing – the bit that said it shouldn’t be submerged in water – was entirely encased in thick soup – luckily the instructions never stated that the unit should never be immersed in soup…. and sticking out of the top of the green soup was the whizzy blades from the bottom of the jug, as it were…
I went to the original pan of soup with a potato masher, mashed what was left, transferred it to a soup bowl and ate it.
Shaken but not stirred, I went to the fridge, picked up half a BIG bar of 70% chocolate and ate it in one go.
I hereby renounce machinery.
My next post will be chiseled into a tree down the road.