Don’t Make a Meal out of a Miele
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.