...Or, What a load of Bologs
Sooooooo, it was Sunday morning and the only day of the week when we get a lie-in.
Feeling rested and refreshed, Mr W got up and offered to make everyone a cooked breakfast. I took the opportunity to have a lovely bath.
I love the smell of a lovely bath. Can't have too many products in the bath water because I have the Skin of a Princess; but the odd splash of a baby product, coupled with the smell of what I can only assume is chlorine, and my nostrils are happy.
There are two smells finer than that of a lovely bath. One is the smell of a cooked breakfast, and the other is the smell of a cooked breakfast that someone else has cooked.
So, after about 20 minutes, I hauled myself out of my lovely bath and flared my nostrils in readiness for the aroma of bacon, mushrooms and toast.
But there was no aroma.
Hmmm. This, dear reader, did not bode well.
I dressed hurriedly (that's my excuse for wearing a shapeless t-shirt and baked bean besplashed jeans) and raced downstairs.
There was Mr W, not skilfully juggling several pans of breakfast items, but with the dishwasher pulled out from its nest beneath the work-surface, pipes leading to washing up bowls, and a full load of filthy, hideous washing up staring accusingly at us.
This is exactly the situation when I fancy I am at my best. My Blitz Spirit kicks in and I become Helpful and Morale Boosting-y.*
|Note to self: Purchase red spotty headkerchief|
So I rolled my sleeves up, enquired as to the state of play, and attempted to assist in any way possible.
Torches were employed, filters were cleaned, excess water (filthy and no doubt riven with scrofula spores) was drained and pipes were checked for blockages. But there was nothing doing. We could find no rhyme nor reason for the malfunctioning of our White Goods. There was talk of calling out a Repair Man, but it seemed the advanced years of Mr Dishwasher may be the explanation for its demise.
Either way, it was looking like being an expensive morning.
I was despatched to the downstairs bathroom (just a loo really, but that sounds wrong somehow) to wash out the last filter. It's often while doing these menial tasks that I find my mind unhinges and I Think Deep Thoughts and the like. Well it was while scrubbing away at this filter that I mused to myself,
'Funny how these things always happen when you've had something really messy like bolognese; there are orange, oily stains everywhere'.
Then the previous evening's events started lolling across my mind like a lazy labrador ... Delicious Spag Bol dinner, dishwasher stacked and switched on, kids packed off early to bed, saucy bottle of Rioja opened - and Mr W and I settled down to watch the film, The Artist.
Which, as we all know, is a Silent Movie.
Which is why I switched the dishwasher off.
I SWITCHED THE DISHWASHER OFF!
Naturally I immediately alerted Mr W to the fact that - hurrah! - there was nothing wrong with our dishwasher!
You could probably read a lot into his silence - if, that is, I hadn't filled it by chirruping on about how wonderful I thought it was that we can do this kind of thing and not take it out on each other. How, rather than getting all snippy and gripey, we have fun sorting these things out. How glad I am that we don't have a Blamestorming kind of relationship and, hey, thank goodness I remembered! That had saved us a lot of money!
And Mr W said,
'If you'd bloody well remembered earlier, it would have saved me two hours up to my armpits in crap'.
Which amounts to the same thing, I reckon.
Or do I kid myself?
(Don't answer that).
*Or, possibly, Useless and Annoying.