Things that I think and do
Dear “Washing Machine”,
We’ve known each other for a while now. We’ve been through some stuff. I was getting to like you – I was even going to ask if you wanted to watch the rugby in the pub this weekend. Maybe after that I could have introduced you to my friends.
But you’ve ruined everything. Any chance we had of being the world’s best pals has gone. And why? Because you refuse to help me. You refuse to perform the simple task that you were put on Earth, and more specifically my house, to do.
I don’t ask for miracles. All I want is for you to give my clothes, in conjunction with some hot and soapy water, a good spin for maybe half an hour. That’s it. I provide the clothes, the water and the soap. I even bring the clothes to you and take them out afterwards.
Why is that difficult? I can deal with the fact that you ignore the setting I switch you to, and revert to “mini wash” every time. I’m a tolerant person. I respect that you do this and still my clothes come out clean. Well, they used to. Because you no longer allow me even this minimal joy.
I’ve turned you off and on again. I’ve begged. I’ve pleaded for mercy as my supply of clean pants dwindles ever smaller. I’ve cajoled, kicked (sorry) and cursed you vehemently several times with choice epithets (again…sorry). I’ve tried bribery and I’ve offered a sacrifice of any animal or human you care to name, that I might appease the God of Clean Laundry.
None of it has got through to your cold, dead internal workings. It’s not me, it’s you. To paraphrase James Blunt’s (appropriately blunt) insult, you’re a useless gimp. You’re not even a washing machine. You’re just a machine. A useless, deceitful machine.
As well as being tolerant, I’m forgiving. So I can’t help but give you more and more chances. But soon my patience will wear thin. You’ve already missed the chance to go for a pint this weekend. Don’t make me unfriend you from Facebook and delete your number from my phone. We can make this work.