There is a sliding scale of domestic catastrophes. It runs from dropping dried pasta on the kitchen floor all the way through to your dog urinating on your bed at 3am New Years Day (not a good start to 2003 let me assure you). Kerry and I have seen it all. But recently the Hughes household has experienced an earth shattering calamity to end all calamities.
Our dishwasher is broken.
You may be one of those people that smugly quip “oh we have a dishwasher in our house, it’s called me/the kids/my husband/my wife” If so then consider yourself banished from this blog forthwith for the heinous crimes of cliché and insensitivity. We need a dishwasher in our house damnit. The towering pile of festering crockery gets high enough as it is without factoring in the time, energy, and motivation needed to actually wash it manually.
I don’t know what’s wrong with it, other than it doesn’t work. I did pull it out the other day and had a poke around the back with a wooden spoon, and for one glorious moment it looked like it had miraculously started working again. I did the obligatory masculine strut around the kitchen proclaiming that I was king of all household maintenance; but then the bloody thing stopped working again just as I was starting to get stuck into the second verse of “Oh Dan You Art So Wondrous”.
So now we are stuck with a broken dishwasher. I have washed up three times today. Three times. And yet as I type I still can’t actually see our kitchen work surfaces due to all the dirty pots and pans. There should be a law against it or something. It’s inhumane I tell you! How can we be expected to live like this!? Surely we’re eligible for some sort of emergency rescue package from the government? We are people danmit, not animals!!
Oh fate, why must you torment us so.
Still, never mind. It’s all part of life’s rich pageant I suppose. And anyway, it’s Evan’s third birthday tomorrow. Something tells me he might be getting that new transformer that’s all the rage. You know, that one that transforms from a dishwasher to a cupboard to keep your dirty plates in. It’s called “Hotpoint” apparently. It’s a bit pricey, but nothing is too good for my little boy.
