Our washing machine shat itself a couple of weeks ago.
You’ll remember my long term dream had been a front loader, it was one of those things on my list of stuff I’d buy once Simon left me, up there with chickens. So it came as a bit of an embarrassing revelation a few years ago when he said he wasn’t averse to the idea at all (front loaders, not chickens or leaving me). All well and good until it gave up the ghost two weeks ago as I said.
The man in the shop, who shall remain nameless (although in fact it was Jordan at Harvey Norman’s), said that my purchase would arrive in five working days. After the first week, Simon made me take his washing up to the beach house to do, along with many detailed instructions, most of which I ignored. Can you believe many women wash their husband’s clothes regularly? No thanks.
Personally, I’ve held out, waiting to christen the new washer with a large load when it finally arrives. When I phoned the shop yesterday, I was apparently one of many irate purchasers wanting to know what the hold up with delivery was. I’ve been reassured (by Daniel, this time), that it should be arriving any day.
In the meantime, I’m getting to the very bottom of my underwear drawer, fishing out knickers that I haven’t worn in years. I knew those hoarding instincts would come in useful eventually! It’s just lucky I saved my lucky underpants for our anniversary dinner the other night or I’d have been eating at this expensive restaurant in fear of the aged elastic giving way, not a good look at any time but particularly under a posh frock.
