“I would honestly rather part with my television, my stereo, possibly even the odd relative, than lose my dishwasher” (Nigel Slater, Appetite).

I’m not one to complain. I can bitch, certainly. I can go on and go about something that annoys me like say … fruit salad that comes with a mound of melon and one grape or “trail mix” which really means peanuts and raisins. But take away my dishwasher!!! Are you fucking kidding me?!?! I was okay waiting for parts. I was okay using a broken dishwasher that actually cleaned dishes, but the computer told you otherwise. The art of washing-up was quaint. The quaintness has now passed. Monsieur Smeg has taken my magic silver box to the homebase to be returned working perfectly. At this point, after three visits from a technician and however many parts, I’d say, “Give me a new one!!!” Damn-it implied. We wait. Waiting for the call that my “lava vah-seel” will return. In the meantime, we wash. Nana is visiting and I think she’s not impressed. She’s been helping with our family wash-up. When I reach for a plate that could have been avoided, I can feel a look. She would rather we eat my freshly made violet ice cream on our green chicken curry plates than break out some dessert bowls.

Okay. I’m done here. Move along. Nothing to see here.