The Washerwoman and the Doughnut

Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. These words have never rung so true. The bloody washing machine has packed up and shipped out. The door lock has some gimpy computerised thing on it that has died and apparently costs more than our annual deficit to replace.

The great white elephant is now lying ass upwards on the kitchen floor exposing its sordid underbelly to the world. I have to say that after 8 odd years of stationery existence the underbelly is pretty sordid. I spent much of the weekend ignoring the situation and promising myself a trip to the Laundromat.

Last night as I sat burning the midnight oil my spouse came down to see me.
(Aside: Oooh, my chair just made a horrible noise and seems to have turned into a Lazyboy.)
My spouse. He walks in very proud of himself:

Spouse: “I have put the laundry in the bath.”
Me: “You’re kidding me, right?”
Spouse: “No.”
Me: “What?”
Spouse: “I poured some shampoo over the lot and stamped around on it.”
Me: “Sorry? You did what?”
Spouse: “Think of the all the time it will save.”
Me: “For whom exactly?”
Spouse: “Bugger, you’re going to blog about this aren’t you?”

My feelings on the matter were underlined this morning when Small girl aged 5 came to me with a puzzled look on her face.
Small girl aged 5: “Mummy. I think Daddy has gone mad.”
Me: “You are only realising this now?”
No, actually, I said: “Why?”
Small girl aged 5: “He’s put all the clothes in the bath water.”
Me: “I know.”
Small girl aged 5: “Maybe he needs to go to the doctor?”

Maybe I need a strait jacket and a padded room. The washing machine, the staple gun air compressor thingie that blew up on my face on Saturday, La Bella Donna going nowhere slowly – what is it with me and appliances? Speaking of my classic car folly, La Bella has petrol, spark, compression and is still not showing signs of resuscitation. What gives? I think I’ll trade her in for the 2012 Ford Mustang, except that the Yanks will only make them in left hand drive. Bastards. Wave a dream in front of me and then cruelly snatch it away. I may well have to move to the home of the chilli dog just so I can have that car – and access to a Chinese Laundromat.

Damn, my cellphone just beeped manically at me to inform me that Small boy aged 9 has a hair and uniform check tomorrow. He currently looks like a Justin Bieber wannabe with bed head. What am I going to do? I offered to buy a clipper set and do it myself, but he reacted with such horror. Actually, I think he’s got my measure pretty well, but it still stings, the lack of trust. I am hoping that some creative combing and discrete concrete gel will disguise his innate scruffidom.

Today I have two reasons for celebration. Firstly, I got a full tank of petrol! Hopefully this means the strike is over. Secondly, I arrived at the Oaklands Seattle Coffee Company for my hot chocolate this morning just as freshly baked chocolate doughnuts came out of the oven. It would take a stronger person than I to ignore the message the universe was quite clearly giving me. It has sprinkles!


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