Don’t Make a Meal out of a Miele
“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”.