Don’t Make a Meal out of a Miele
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.