Don’t Make a Meal out of a Miele
“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.”