Don’t Make a Meal out of a Miele
At approximately 5 o clock one midwinter’s morning, the dawn of a reclusive Tuesday that shall remain unnumbered. I reluctantly rose from my possessive pillow, lazily lowered both feet to meet a tiled surface of mild beige, and swayed dazedly down the passage that adjoined my cave of slumber to a room inhabited by appliances whose service we exploit and sickness we scold. Our culinary command central, the kitchen.
One particular corner of my own was nobly furnished with a handsome, hygienically inclined pragmatist. One who patiently observes, crazes, phases and fashions evolve, revolve, and devolve without passing a single caustic comment. A titanic, Teutonic, masterful machine of the cloth, my majestic Miele WT 2780 washer dryer.
Recruited at great expense in 2012, it was within days of celebrating its third birthday and the previous evening, had completed its routine high intensity spinning session, followed by a revolutionary form of hot yoga. Contrary to what many may suppose, this was not its keep fit routine, nor a novel means to maintain a sleek drum lined with well-defined metallic honeycomb. Ironically, it was rigorous rotational dedication to ensure my self-prescribed physical disciplines did not undergo disruption.
Imagine my perplexed disappointment when, after pressing the bevelled orange button marked “open” and hearing a cooperative clunk I was presented with a frigid receptacle of soaking fabrics. What on Pluto? I swear I requested a full service, “Express 20”, wash and dry, same as yesterday and the day before, last Sunday too. I don’t use “Dark Garments” any more, its a waste of water and energy and the wash cycle by itself takes twice as long. I kneaded several pairs of jeans, yes, it was definitely residual H20.
A quick canter across the internet revealed nothing of use. Despite astute search terms such as.
“miele dryer” AND fail
“miele dryer” AND “not drying”
“miele dryer washer” AND “dryer not heating up”
“miele washer dryer” AND “wash still wet after drying”
Plenty of matches, but no solutions, only aggravated acknowledgements of the same issue or rants relating to different models whose talents were limited to washing. I’d been forewarned about the erratic nature of these hybrids. One especially taciturn rep in my nearest branch of an autonomous appliance empire had stated;
“All dryers in combos all have to be condensers. In principal that’s not bad and very often, it’s the only option for flat owners who can’t have their dryer close to an outside wall or window. But they are prone to fail more frequently than vented dryers because they use water as a part of the drying process, and H2o and electricity don’t mix too well.
“They seem to get on fine in washing machines” I might have quipped had I felt atypically confident…or facetious. But battling to justify this monumental investment against my own conscience as well as the informed views of a perfectly helpful “utilitarian” meant I could only muster a vacant stare, followed by a vapid nod and the mindless utterance
“Thanks, do you do next day delivery?”
Back to agitated Googling and finally a ray of logic lit up a grey lobe. The previous night, as I’d been dutifully bathing the last pile of plates amidst a potent crimson haze of Campari, I had, moments before retiring to my own dominion of dreams, been distracted by a shrill string of beeps emanating from the larynx of my one drum launderette.
Initially I had thought it was a certain chilly cupboard insisting that its door should promptly be closed lest my entire supply of condiments be turned into slush, but not so. My fridge’s distress signal equated to that of a reversing truck, one pronounced tone after another at approximately one second intervals. The Miele’s song was more a sophisticated affair, clusters of beeps in swift succession and thrice at a time, strongly suggesting a repertoire of Morse code inspired phrases attributing to a plethora of errors.
As the echoes of what plainly hadn’t been a nightmare persisted to pervade my thoughts, I recalled I had glanced at the machine’s LCD and noted an auspicious and offensively dismissive message. “Fault 55, call service”. Several things bothered me about it.
Firstly, It offered not the vaguest clue as to its origin. Second, it all but guaranteed the existence of 54 additional faults, each of which may visit me at the loss of a sock and lastly, my own white goods were instructing me to seek assistance on their behalf, run for help, solicit accredited expertise from more accomplished individuals, imbued with greater knowledge and armed with a broader array of longer, metier tools than I, an apparently incompetent master. As a result of my reluctance to dignify such snobbery by attending to the Miele’s arrogant request, I had not spared it a second thought before crashing out for the night. Now all was clear as the , a spontaneous aversion to drying was the apparent consequence of fault 55.
“Oh my dear Miele” I ruefully lamented. “Little provokes a gentlemen more than to demand his concession to branded authority when confronted by an ambiguous technical hindrance, especially in the age of the search engine….
“fault 55” AND “miele wt2780”
WT2780 AND “not drying” AND “no heat” AND fault
Two returns. One from a spurious site, spewing spyware and claiming this was a “windows related” error but the other looked promising.
A cry for help from a domestique in a similar quandary – gender not disclosed – and an evidently straight forward solution.
The problem was said to relate to the machine’s thermostats, which comprised part of the heating element and had likely caused a trip on its circuit, reasons as to why this anomaly remained ambiguous. I theorized. Improper installation? Poor accommodation? Insufficient clearance for heat dispersal? My kettle had never grumbled over having to administer a certain amount of thermal persuasion to perform its appointed role, nor indeed had my toaster.
I had assumed that effective temperature management and the ability to sustain function under an abundance of degrees were amongst the prerequisites for a utility whose career revolved around the art of accelerated evaporation. Could a tumble dryer really be Fahrenheit phobic? Never mind the sarcasm, practicality beckoned. The suggested fix involved removing the Meile’s rear access panel and resetting the heating element via a trip switch.
I was inspired by the apparent simplicity of a cure that might well have cost me dearly, and hurriedly began harvesting tools. My arsenal was a modest one, mostly purchased to indulge my hobby of computer construction. Three flat-heads of varying proportions, a pair of wire cutters fit for little more than a spot cable tie pruning, a curious instrument with one broken prong, designed to retrieve wandering nuts from crevices, a yellow test tube with no apparent purpose, my faithful Philips family of four, whose amplest member was sculpted to swivel standard and “posidriv” screws and an atypical array of Allan keys, accumulated from several several sets, none complete to begin with, and a trio of mismatched oddities, long, longer and longest, all worryingly thin, that had somehow survived the heat sinks and cases they’d originally served to secure.
Not by any twist the most suitable army for man-handling what I suspected would be some of the most tightly wound security my frail wrists had ever attempted to surmount but even though my palms bore calluses of their making, they were my friends, straight, sturdy and powered by nothing other than gritted teeth, raw elbow grease. I was determined it would be they and I who triumphed over formality, who remained unperturbed by the traditional notion that official sources provide superior resolutions, who prevented a supposedly infallible company from drawing profit through exploiting what was beginning resemble, at the very least, a convenient oversight.
Back to the kitchen. I lined my worn but worldly brigade up on the glass hob above the oven and was immediately assailed by another monophony of disapproval, this time due to obstructing the cooker’s touch sensitive controls.
“Pardon me,” it seemed to squeak, “I’m all for culinary creativity, but slow boiled screwdriver sounds like a rather unpalatable breakfast. By all means be my guest, though I’d suggest you play it safe with porridge …
Shut up! I snapped, cutting it off via that sinister red switch you never touch unless you’ve notified every neighbour in the street. I plucked a clump of raisins – my brain food of choice – from a nearby shelf and turned to regard my sceptical patient. “Call service eh?” A detached voice echoed cynically. Prey what service did you have in mind. I wonder. A light snack perhaps, a cheese and lettuce sandwich, glass of Rose? No, too naff for a Miele.
How about a kilo or two of Beluga Cavier, two loaves of gluten free rice bread, super thinly sliced, a crescent of croutons, sour-dough naturally, fried in extra virgin olive oil with a hint of rosemary, and a selection of subtle garlic, Tabasco, and Wasabi dips, oh don’t worry if you can’t take the heat, wash it down with a bottle of Bollinger on ice, complements of your gullible adopter. I’m sorry, of course its not that kind of service you crave, your health is at stake.
I now regret I didn’t acquiesce to that extended medical insurance policy so passionately recommended on the date of your adoption. We could have had eight years peace of mind. You’d have been covered for everything. Injury in the whirl of duty, rotationally induced dementia, pre-cycle tension, post-rinse anxiety, repetitive spin syndrome, garment withdrawal and acute electrical fatigue. It was shocking how swiftly my adulation had given way to bitterness and sarcasm, but this wasn’t a £12 fat fryer employed on a whim, then forsaken following several failed attempts to fry fat nor was it non-stick saucepan that after several thousand rounds of scrambled eggs, had decided sticking was underrated. This miraculous Miele was a sophisticated fibre cleansing device of the highest pedigree, engineered with painstaking precision and worth a couple of serviceable used cars.
The machine appeared to stare back from its snugly appointed abode. It had been relocated twice by the same removal team, just two members strong, really strong, and on the latter occasion, their faces had sagged as much at the prospect of its conveyance as their muscles did under its murderous mass.
“It’s a beast!”. Gareth had exclaimed in his husky Ozzy rasp, as he’d skilfully slid it into place. “So much worse than the Beko”. That “Beko”, I had donated to Gareth as a gesture of goodwill and was probably fulfilling its purpose without a beep bitterness, even as I mulled how on earth I was to persuade its successor to submit to uncertified authority without fracturing my spine. Gingerly I knelt, on some ginger crumbs from a ginger nut – traces of some sugary midnight shenanigans – and searched for a gripping point. With no clearance above, or on either side, my choices were scarce, though that ledge across the bottom looked a viable option.
It wouldn’t afford my legs the chance to assist – never a good thing when hauling the heavies – but perhaps I could waddle it out in a methodical military fashion. I grasped the lip with both hands, leaning a little to my right and commenced, cautiously, to pull. The white skirting bowed and as I leaned back there was a cantankerous creek, but not a millimetre of movement. Forget it, that’ll snap if you tug any harder, my conscience reflected. For the period it took to swallow a raisin, I pondered. Stumped at stage zero. I’d watched Gareth pry this Goliath from its previous dwelling, how the hell had he managed it? The Fairy liquid trick? No, even with reduced friction that plastic was hopelessly flimsy.
I glanced at the door, slightly ajar, tears of condensation carving lines down the window to its hollow soul. Then all at once I remembered. The upper lip of the drum! It made perfect sense. More robust, plenty to grab and considerably greater leverage. I stooped a fraction, extended both arms into damp darkness and closed my upturned palms over a rubbery threshold with my fingertips pressed tightly against the receptacle’s cool surface. Then, in a partial crouch and with sock-less feet planted as firmly as sandstone would allow, I began to apply a modicum of controlled force.
When people are under pressure of a physical nature, their faces take on an extraordinary range of expressions, each as unique as a sunrise, though somewhat less pleasant to behold. The sort of grotesque gurns, and gruesome grimaces, that you’d readily associate with a variety of activities besides the one being carried out. Some individuals master the elusive feat of retaining their dignity, whilst others actually manage to look heroic when engaged in strenuous but mundane tasks.
For the remaining 99%, its a question of praying that nobody’s looking. Have you ever witnessed a professional strongman shuffling down a 50 yard course with a citron 2cv balanced precariously on his shoulders? If your answer is no, you haven’t lived. If its yes and you’re now grinning, then you’ll be able to picture their desperate visage and make a mental comparison with my own, five fold as tortured, as I attempted to manoeuvre something one fifth the weight.
My lips rolled inward, withdrawing from view, causing me to appear toothless and about 87. My cheeks puffed, resembling a slightly agitated porcupine fish. I jerked and heaved, I hustled and jostled, my lower back was placed on orange alert though to my intense relief, all was not in vein. Stubbornly, grudgingly and with the air of a protesting child being dragged from the biscuit aisle, the colossal creature crept forward inch by sullen inch. Its stubby feet generated jarring squeals and did all they could to jam themselves between the grout, but my mission would not be halted.
A couple more raisins, a hike, a jiggle and a conclusive yank rewarded me with a commanding view of the Kraken’s vacated lair. For a six month tenancy and despite a forced eviction, everything seemed in pleasant order. A surprising dearth of dust and no permanent marks on the tiling, though a closer inspection revealed an “escapee” (escaped pea), one cube of carrot, four almonds, a kettle crisp, crispier now than on the day of its disappearance and two five penny pieces, which I decided to retain as a security deposit.
Its supply lines comprised of the power lead and the cold water hose, with an additional drain hose akin to those hazardous corrugated serpents most closely related to vacuum cleaners. The two water pipes were drawn taut, so much so that any further tugging could well cause a rupture or damage the fixtures. To perform my examination to I was going to have to take up temporary residence beneath the counter, in the alcove my indisposed laundryman had hitherto occupied and with scant space to extract the stiffest screws. I scrutinized my surgical assembly upon the stove, considering which member may be best qualified to brutalize bolts I had yet to glimpse. I went with “big phil”. Cross-heads were the most common and if they were pozidriv, size shouldn’t be critical to success.
In any case, overcompensating and being forced to press harder was infinitely preferable to underestimating the prefect fit and enduring the embarrassment of inadequate head purchase. I eagerly hopped over the hoses, crouched behind the monster, reversed into its cosy quarters and surveyed its posterior for a point of entry. The access panel referred to in the remedy appeared to be absent. I ran my fingers over the metal hoping to feel what my eyes had missed.
My prayers weren’t answered, the entire back appeared to be in one piece and to worsen matters, the screws were neither cross nor flat breeds, they were star heads, a dozen or so in number, the sort used to hold lids on hard rives, only much more substantial, and rigorously reared to thwart the efforts of a curious novice. Already resigned to the outcome , I inserted “big phil” into the upper left sentinel’s cranium, stood with my spine squashed against the worktop’s underside, leant forwards, my full bodyweight bearing down on his handle and twisted it counter-clockwise. His tip instantly lost touch with its subject, my left palm slipped and painfully struck the corner of the machine, and, to a silent chorus of starry sneers “big phil” clattered wildly to the ground, where he lay humbled and helpless.
“What’s going on here?”. A angry voice barked from beyond. I looked up, nursing my hand. There in the doorway, stood an obstacle far tougher than the tightest screw in the country including those patrolling the corridors of Her Majesty’s Prisons.
“Hello Mum!”. I said nervously. Sheepishly retrieving big phil and setting him down beside his consolatory comrades.
“What are you doing?” She questioned, more sternly. I had a repertoire of repellent replies for such predicaments, including the following crafty concoction of reverse psychology;
“Come and see, it’s really interesting.”
A deliciously ironic gamble that rarely came up short thanks to our vastly contrasting passions for modern technology though on this occasion, it would have only been worth a punt if she hadn’t had the advantage of plain site.
“It’s not as bad is at looks.” Was my conservative substitute.
“As bad as that?” Was her discerning and caustic response.
“Aren’t you going swimming today?” I asked, seeking to deflect.
“I’ve just got back,” she replied. “They open early on Wednesday’s because of the schools, you know that.”
“Ah yes, of course,” I said as assuredly as I could, fully aware that had I remembered earlier, I’d have postponed this fearful ordeal to an hour when I could be certain of sanctuary from prying eyes and a fatal tongue.
“So, what’s happening, what are you trying to do?” Her quest for an answer would not be foiled.
“It won’t dry.” I sighed. Slowly coming to terms with the ever increasing severity of my task.
“What, since when?” Abruptly came the fifth question.
“Today.” I said. “I left an express cycle running last night, just jeans, couple of shirts and one towel, woke up about an hour ago and found they were still sodden.”
“Are you sure you set it to dry?” She enquired.
“Yes,” I groaned “I switched it on too.”
“Be nice please,” she replied, sharply “I’m trying to help, if you were tired you might have made a mistake.”
“No, both lights were on, the upper and the lower, see, there?” I gestured to the controls, “Plus there was an error message.”
“What did it say?” Her inquisition continued.
“It doesn’t matter and before you ask, it’s not mentioned in the manual.” I hadn’t checked , but I was guessing that “fault 55, call service” translated as, “far too niche and cryptic to be referenced in enclosed documentation, amongst tiresomely obvious suggestions like; ensure your house can receive electricity, check the power connection, turn it off and turn it on, do not use to wash or dry cake, unless attached to clothing and speak in a firm but polite tone of voice.
“Where are the clothes?” She asked.
“Still in the machine.” I said.
“Well take them out and dry them in mine.” She instructed. “Then find a number to call for help, there’s bound to be one.”
“Indeed,” I responded sceptically. “Another ponderous rats maze of automated horror culminating in a tediously long-winded and hideously expensive resolution, if you’re lucky.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s still under warranty.”
“I’m afraid not” I said, hunching to resume my inspection.
“What!” She exclaimed “We took out that protection plan, I remember giving you the welcome pack, 5 years for 10 pounds.”
“That was for your dryer,” I corrected. “This one came with two years free parts and labour and the option of an eight year extension, but to get either you had to register.”
“Did you?” She asked.
“Nope.” I replied with no hint of shame
“Why?”
“There was a form and a phone number and I’ve never been a fan of either. Anyway it’s irrelevant, we got it in January 2013, it’s now March 2015, you know the routine. I had assumed in my fantastically finite wisdom that £1300 would be enough to circumnavigate the curse of orchestrated obsolescence, evidently I was wrong”
“Just find that phone number,” She ordered. “If something isn’t fit for purpose you’ll still be covered.” I wasn’t inclined to argue, Mum despised corporate avarice as much I and as a stoical family partnership, a whole two members strong, we had endured contracts looser than a hip-hopper’s trousers. As a result, she had evolved into a formidable armchair solicitor, who’d sooner cease to exist than idly witness a common man forfeit his rights. However, in my mind, when logic and patience met with injured pride underpinned by a battalion of tools whose tips burned with curiosity and a lust for revenge, there was only one way forward.
“You’re not actually trying to fix this yourself, are you?” Asked mum, instantly evoking memories of Sybil Fawlty as she tried to stop Basil from tinkering under the hood of his hapless Hillman Imp.
“Let me just look.” I replied, already planning my next three answers. “I’ve checked the internet and this happened to someone else, apparently they fixed it. The thermostat caused the heating circuit to trip, there’s supposed to be a reset button mounted on the element and a removable plate, but I can’t find it so I’ll have to take whole the back off”.
“Darling please, get the number and I’ll call them myself.” Sympathy tinged with severity was an elusive cadence, and she’d mastered it. “You build computers, but that doesn’t mean you’re an electrician, let’s hold these people to account.”
“There’s only 12 screws so it won’t take long,” I said, examining one as I spoke and choosing to ignore her command. I had no star disposal expert amongst my ranks but in a pinch, an Allan key could prove as capable.
“You don’t do DIY.” She asserted, as I turned to asses my candidates. “You’re going to ruin it.” This would not go unchallenged.
“Who hung that mirror in the lounge?” I asked, defiantly.
“It took you over an hour and you complained more than a courier stuck in rush hour traffic.” She recalled.
“And why was that?” I enquired rhetorically, selecting a middle-sized key and eyeing it with intent. “Because you were terrified the drill’s hammer mode would damage the plaster, so I melted three drill-bits boring one hole in solid brickwork.”
“What about that tea towel rail,” She went on, deftly changing topics and pointing at three splayed chrome rods above the sink. “An whole afternoon of huffs, puffs and sulks.”
“Pure bad luck,” I protested. “I picked the one spot on the wall that happened to have a screw secluded in the beam behind it, what chance did I have?”
In truth, I wasn’t anxious to dwell on this particular escapade for fear of sullying a surprisingly resilient defence, for it had been far from flattering. I’d even hidden from our Gardner afterwards to avoid a humiliating conversation about the “proper” tools and educated methods he’d have employed for such a laughably remedial task, and save having to listen to how he’d personally erected his entire conservatory the previous weekend whilst composing an album on his iPhone that was going to cover the costs of the raw materials. Presently, Mum arrested my train of despondent thoughts.
“Get the manual and let’s call, or at least send an email.” She said.
“And give them the satisfaction of stringing us out?” I snapped back, stooping to try the key in the screw that had foiled “big phils” noble efforts. “All I want to do is check if this switch exists. If it does and it works, we’ll save loads of hassle.”
“And risk breaking a thousand pounds worth of equipment?” She wasn’t having it.
“Stop with the melodrama,” I demanded, pushing the key into place and giving it a wiggle. A cascade of endorphins caused my hackles to bristle with anticipation. It was the perfect marriage, Cinderella’s foot in a glass slipper and a momentous stroke of good fortune. “Nothing’s going to get broken.” I assured, resolutely grasping the key with my reddened right palm.
“You may have thwarted Phil,” I muttered, inhaling deeply. “Now say hello to Allan, the REALLY nasty cop. Come on. A little give is all I need. To know that you’re willing will inspire me to apprehend your eleven accomplices. Resistance will merely bring us pain, but yours shall be so much worse. I was genuinely talking to screws.
“You haven’t even unplugged it.” Mum observed agitatedly, as I ramped up the pressure.
“That’s intentional.” I grunted, through gritted teeth. “You’re only supposed to turn it off.”
“Who told you that?” She asked.
“People you don’t argue with.” I felt the screw’s starry crown threaten to self-destruct but experience gleaned from 15 years of computer warfare was sufficient to stave off panic. One clinical thrust followed by a decisive jolt saw this fearfully tenacious guardian finally yield to Sargent Allan’s ruthless persuasion.
“Got you!” I exclaimed with delight, extracting the remainder of the barrel and setting the bolt head down upon the hob.
“You really ought to unplug it.” declared Mum. “If nothing else, I’d rather you remained fit for purpose.”
“Trust me,” I urged, gleefully attacking bolt number two, which proved pleasantly passive compared to its captain. “Leaving it connected means its grounded. If I unplug it there could still be electricity trapped in the circuitry which would discharge to earth at the earliest opportunity, most likely through my trembling fingers.”
“Men and their challenges,” Mum lamented. “You’re father was never like this, I’m going to get the manual.” She promptly vanished and flip-flopped towards the stairs.
“He was exactly the same.” I argued, tactfully teasing out the third screw.
“Not with things that turned on.” She shouted from the hall. “Are you going to tell me where it is?”
“In the white filing cabinet,” I yelled as she ascended. “Third box file from the back, says “Gen Household” on the spine.” My technique was improving with every twist and by the time she had returned, rebels 4 through 8 had joined their disgruntled associates on the stove in an orderly line, their tips turned skyward.
“Have you cleaned the detergent draw?” She asked
“No.” I replied, coaxing out doorman number nine. She’d discovered the troubleshooting section.
“What about the water filter?”
“I don’t know where that is.” I groaned with tapering patience.
“In the inlet hose.” She said, turning the page. “The that’s end connected to the stopcock, it needs de-scaling every six months. Did you put too much laundry in, was it clinging to the sides of the drum?”
I’ve always gone by the load indicator.” I answered, as enemy number 10 willingly yielded. “It’s never read over 100%.”
“Did you put too little laundry in?” She continued. “It says it has to analyse moisture levels before it can dry. Small loads can annoy it, apparently. How long was the dry cycle? Did you reset the load detector? What spin speed did you select?”
“What the HELL is this thing?” I bawled. “A washing machine, or a Particle Physicist?”
“You chose it,” She responded, unflinchingly. “If I were you I’d have stuck with your old friend and used my dryer, or relied on the Sun and this rich coastal air, that’s the real way to launder. The Sea smells sweeter than any softener.” She withdrew from view once more, continuing to peruse the text. Then, shuffling into the studio, she glanced at the screen which still framed the forum exchange that had first fired my enthusiasm.
“The whole point of this thing was to prevent us treading on each others toes.” I said, “And I’ve just got breakthrough on number 11.” I placed the penultimate guard in ceramic disgrace and knelt, coincidentally, for what would I prayed would be the last time. However, the twelfth and final foe looked to be an awkward deviant. It stood proud of the surface and appeared to secure a rubber washer, firmly implying the presence of a pivotal component on the opposite side of the metal. I attempted to loosen it and encountered meagre protest, further elevating my suspicions. One hesitant half turn after another, I rotated it westward, expecting at any instant to hear the apocalyptic clatter, as whatever it was tumbled into terminal oblivion. Mercifully, the silence was disturbed by nothing but the contented purr of the fridge and Mum’s next question.
“Have you calibrated the drying levels? She shouted down the passage.
“None of these things relate to the problem.” I yelled back.
“How do you know.” She asked.
“INSTINCT!”
“The same instinct that told you there was a back plate?
“No,” I shouted. “That’s what the tech-site said.”
“But If you can’t find it, they might be talking about different model”. She theorized.
“They only do one washer dryer,” I replied. “The rest just wash.”
But her astute suggestion had given me pause. What if this was a later revision, hastily sanctioned by Miele because the original had proven fixable by those of non-Miele descent? There was certainly no access panel and to further dampen my spirits, the back and base of the machine appeared to be welded together, rendering operation Allan key as worthless as Lucifer’s thermal underwear.
Dejectedly, I gazed at the mottled steel, now firmly convinced that this entire thing was a malicious machination to the avail of Miele and their clan of ordained technicians. Deviously devised for them to victimise the vulnerable. They would charge extortionate call out and inspection fees, perform a “formal” diagnosis by prodding about for the 20 minutes it takes them to quaff your coffee.
Then, when you were conveniently distracted by a txt, an app or a holiday snap, they’d surreptitiously poke this magic button through the application of some proprietary tool and obscure procedure, only disclosed in the permanently classified 977 page service manual, indelibly singed into their frontal cortex, before claiming that whole heating assembly needed replacing and shamelessly promoting yet another prohibitive health insurance package in case it happened again.
“Listen to this.” Yelled Mum, arresting my mental rant. “Thank you for your helpful advice, I removed the top panel, reset the trip and the dryer is working again. If this is a known issue, how ridiculous that Miele made it so difficult to access.” She was evidently quoting the post I’d read earlier, but something had changed, something that induced a tingling of adrenaline in my aching limbs.
“What did you say?” I asked urgently.
“Thank you for your helpful advice,” She repeated. “I removed the top panel, reset the trip…
“Did you say TOP panel?” I interrupted in a tone that was half bewildered and half ecstatic. “In the answer it said the rear panel…”
“That’s right, and in the follow up it says TOP, perhaps if you read things thoroughly rather than let blood rush to the tips of your tools…”
“I’m on it!” I exclaimed in triumph, excitement coursing through my veins. I grabbed a fistful of raisins and ingested them faster than a Tommy Gun could pepper a wall with the message “Making a Meal out of a Miele.” Two plastic plugs and a pair of fleeting star bolts later, and I was poised to expose the beast’s inner beauty.
“Please darling,” Mum implored, resuming her spectator’s position, “Let’s leave it. Have have a cup of tea and we’ll call them as soon as it’s 9.”
“Sorry?” I laughed. “You can’t show a bull a red rag and then expect it to trot, remember what happened with your stove when the induction decided to pack up?”
“Yes,” She snapped. “I called and got it mended.”
“I think that’s the abridged version.” I said. “The director’s cut went something like this; Called support, one week, no response, called support again. We’ll send someone round. Another week, man comes round and looks. “Yes, it’s faulty, I’ll order the part”. Man leaves. A third week passes. Part turns up. Two days later, new man arrives to fit it. “Sorry, you need another part as well as this part, I’ll order that,”. New man leaves. One month elapses. Second part delivered, shortly followed by a third man. “Sorry, both these parts are wrong, they’re for a newer model, I’ll order the right parts but the suppliers out of stock so it’ll take up to 28 days.” 30 days later, third man returns to conclude a two month including a Christmas dinner that featured oven-boiled sprouts.”
“They were roasted and they tasted delicious.”
“To the seagulls?”
“To everyone except you. The point is, he fixed it and we paid nothing.”
“And if it comes to that so be it, but in the meantime, there’s no harm in me trying to hurry things along.”
Purposefully and with pounding arteries, I clutched both sides of the lid, pensive as to the what might lurk beneath. I hitched and yanked with simmering aggression, it bucked at the edges but refused to budge. I slid my hands forward a fraction, then pulled again, it flexed enough for me to sandwich a finger under the front corners, then finally detached with an ominous snap, the sort that is invariably accompanied by the telling titter of a crucial plastic clip dancing a mocking fandango across the floor. Mum raised a palm to her forrid, tutted, then heaved a long sigh.
“Could you look after that for a minute?” I pleaded, passing her the panel.
She took it without reply, then, resignedly shaking her head, shuffled back into the studio.
Nervously, I inspected the subject’s vital organs. It wasn’t that bad, it was decidedly worse. It bore a stunning similarity to the anatomy of the time bomb they tethered James Bond to in Goldfinger, that he attempts to diffuse moments after Odd Job is electrocuted. Steel shrouds fostering shiny cogs, teeming communities of capacitors and not the slightest speck of solder, bunches of hair-width wires routed with improbable diligence and trimmed with a precision that would humble a Hollywood barber.
Echoes of John Barry’s score rang in my ears and visions of Sean Connery’s furrowed features were abound as my eyes drifted left and right and my hands hovered hither and thither, dithering in desperation on their fruitless search as my confidence bled away into a cornucopia of components.
This must be the heating element, or at least it’s appointed lodgings, I thought, focusing on a monolithic lump of metal, handsomely embossed with the company logo. But why mount it on the top of the drum when hot air rises? And why on earth was I quibbling over design efficiency when, if it were positioned underneath, I’d have had no chance of glimpsing, never mind touching it. But if this was indeed the source of the malfunction, where were the thermostats? Entombed within its impregnable membrane, sealed away as tightly as a Pharaoh’s treasure? Why? Why give aspiring amateurs hope and then callously crush their confidence?
A solitary raisin fell from my fingers – I’d made the mistake of nibbling on a cluster – mischievously tangoed off the top of the drum and vanished into a ravine of forbidding pipes, far too dense even for a torch’s rays to penetrate, let alone the desperate digits of its involuntary liberator. Then, all at once, there it was. A sly little eye nestled below a blue cable, black in shade and almost flawlessly camouflaged against its casing. A delicate sheen of perspiration permeated my brow as I extended a timid pinky, and pressed. There was an obliging click, nothing definitive, but enough to imply the passing of influential event. Enough to assuage my curiosity. Enough to evolve a conversation with a licensed Miele Engineer should one need consulting after all.
“Found something.” I called in a restrained tone, not wishing to proclaim a premature victory.
“What is it?” She enquired with equal caution.
“I’m not sure, but it clicked when I pushed it.” I replied. “So if it isn’t what it’s supposed to be, at least its done the thing that what it is supposed to be would have done.”
“I heard up until not sure.” She said, a vague smile in her voice.
“In other words, I’m done.” I announced, blowing out my cheeks in acute relief.
“So can we relax now?” She sighed, wandering back to the doorway and carefully propping the panel against the frame. “I suppose we should try it before you put that back.”
“What?” I answered, surprised by her sudden boldness. “You mean like this, with the top open?”
“Why not?” She said. “Can’t hurt if you don’t touch it.”
I flicked the mains switch, then powered up. A pool of icy light illuminated the porthole as the creature awoke, no doubt a little startled to be deprived of its crown. Its LCD glimmered invitingly. I dialled in a drying programme with the air of thief cracking the president’s safe. The machinery rumbled into life, the pump thrummed determinedly as it dispensed the last drop of water, and the heater emitted its Vader-like wheeze. The drum began to whirl as we looked on in a wordless trance. After five minutes of extraordinarily slow eternity has elapsed, I chanced to place a tentative thumb on the element’s sarcophagus, catching Mum’s caustic eye as I did so. It is rare for any of sound mind to garner pleasure from pain, though this was a justified exception.
“Unless my senses deceive me, that’s what’s known as heat.” I declared in delight.
“Are you sure thermal perception is one of the senses?” Mum queried.
“Until scientists get bored.” I laughed. “Come on, let’s put it back to bed.”
If wrestling this Titan from it’s domain was as onerous as climbing Mont Ventoux on a penny farthing, returning it was like parachuting off the summit. One, because I had the aid of mythical maternal might and two, because the kitchen was the perfect width to jam my back against the opposing wall and use my feet to shove.
“Now how about that cup of tea,” She smiled “then you can decide what to do with those.” Her timbre shifted to one of sympathetic smugness as she gracefully gestured toward twelve twinkling screws lined up on the hob.