Thursday, 31 May 2012

I'm no scrubber.

I've mentioned before about how much I love gadgets (the slow-cooker is still in my boot, but moving on...), however, of late I have been increasingly angered by my washing machine. I can't deny that washing machines are a modern day miracle and I don't know where I would be without mine. Apart from being up til midnight grating my fingers on a washboard and getting my legs caught in a mangle. But my washing machine is possessed, I can think of no other explanation for it's strange shenanigans. It goes through phases of making every item of clothing smell of wet dog for a start. I don't know why, there seems to be no rhyme or reason to it, I think it just likes to humiliate me. The smell doesn't seem so bad until you iron the offending item, releasing the wet dog aroma in the steam. And of course, upon wearing when the item gets warm and we have to go about our day releasing bubbles of 'eau de damp pooch'. And despite having read the instructions from cover to cover, I can find no mention of it's ability to turn one leg of a pair of trousers, and one arm of a shirt inside out. This should be one of it's key selling points, because doing that is like the laundry equivalent of tying a cherry stalk with your tongue! How is that even possible in such a confined space?
You may ask why I stick with a washing machine that makes me smell and makes me have to wrestle with every item of clothing before I can hang it on the line. The answer lies with The Husband. We have reached loggerheads, basically. I will only be allowed one of those new shiny silver things with a door so big the entire front is practically see-through and has the capacity to wash the laundry for the whole street in one go (Oh god, I want one so badly) when The Husband is allowed a ridiculously large tv. For me, the washing machine is a necessity but the tv isn't. So long as I can watch my soaps I couldn't give a flying frick about having a tv so fancy it makes it feel like Gail Platt is shaking her jowls in my front room. In fact, I would go to any lengths to avoid that *brrrrrrrrrr*. So until the stalemate is somehow broken, I shall arm myself with a bottle of Febreze, walk upwind of the crowds, and The Husband will have to put up with wearing one shirt sleeve inside out. I wonder how much Dollytubs and mangles are on Ebay?

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