So my week has been a mixed bag of events. It started off well with Monday being warm and sunny and arriving with a job interview in tow – only for an agency but still, it’s a start. After my little shopping spree on Sunday (business clothes only I might add) I put on a great little suit dress type thing and trundled off up to London Waterloo. As I left with flip flops on and stilettos in hand (got to be mindful when debuting new shoes) my plugger came out of my flip flop. Now for those of you that aren’t Australian your flip flops are held together by one plug between your toes (depending on how old you are you might even have double pluggers but that’s another story) and about 5 paces from my front door it broke. I should have taken this as a sign that this week was going to be ‘one of those’ weeks.
I switched shoes again and finally made it up to London, had a promising meeting with said recruitment agent, meandered around the Southbank in the sun and headed up to Liverpool street to do some banking, and admire some bankers. I then spent the afternoon in Covent Garden trying to track down unique looking stylish people for my street style fashion shoot thing that I’m doing as part of my intern/freelance magazine thing. Now you’d be fooled into thinking that was a pretty pleasant day – which it was, until I got home that night and started to feel the dreaded aches and pains of the common cold.
Tuesday was pretty boring, applied for more jobs, watched even more Come Dine With Me – endured more programmes about moving to Australia (there are SO many!) and then came Wednesday – the day to end all days.
It started off well with finding out via email that my Aussie visa had come through – hurrah! I then decided to put on some washing and mooch about the house doing various useful things. I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in that situation where you want to leave the house but the washing machine says it only has 20 minutes left and you’re torn between just going and having smelly washing 6 hours later when you eventually get home, or waiting and hanging the washing out? Well this was my dilemma.
I patiently waited the ’20′ minutes – which turned out to be 35 and enthusiastically went to open the door before the lock symbol had disappeared. Now I might add – and this is vitally important – that the cycle HAD finished and said ‘End’ – it was just the damn symbol that hadn’t disappeared. I tugged on the door and it didn’t open. I left it until I heard the lock release sound, and alas, still no open door. It was at this moment that panic set in. I needed to go but was scared shitless that I’d broken the washing machine, (not ideal when your mother has just purchased a new fridge) so to my disappointment I put it back on for a spin for 15 minutes (20 mins) and then tried the door again – nothing!
I left thinking that somewhere in space and time between me leaving and returning that it might miraculously just fix itself. Fast forward 6 hours later and still no joy. At this point I turned to good old Yahoo Answers; literally the best thing since sliced bread, and scoured the pages for solutions; turned it on and off, tried another cycle, took the plug out – nothing would work. At this point I was desperate to sort it without the mother figure finding out. To my surprise I managed to drag the machine from its snug resting place, open the lid with a screwdriver and pop the latch to get it to open. I was quite impressed with myself to say the least. That was until she closed the door with new washing inside and it wouldn’t open – again. And all this was happening amidst a screaming session directed at me from said mother figure, saying that apparently everything I touch gets ruined! Not sure if she is referring to everything seeing as my face and boobs (and other things I won’t mention here) seem to be fine.
I do hate that though – the parental rule that unless it was them that found the washing machine door handle broken; it must have been your fault. Even if the chance of you both discovering the fault at the same time was equal – it will always be a case of “well it was fine the last time I used it!”
Anyway, I hopped onto YouTube (god bless YouTube) and found an instructional video about how to replace the door handle on a Hotpoint Washing machine – magic! Then a website where I could by the part – amazing! You have to love the internet in times of desperation. So I ordered the part hastily (£21.99 later – bastards) and went to bed anxious.
I awoke the next morning – thankfully to an empty house – and got to work disassembling the dreaded machine. It’s always better not to have someone watching you in these circumstances, just in case you fuck up…royally…which is what I did…in a word.
I was going well, hammers and tongs, getting out the broken door handle, putting the glass bowl out of harm’s way, making sure the screws were in nice little piles when for some reason I screwed the wrong screw back into the door of the machine. Now this sounds like a minor issue, except for the fact that no matter what I did to that screw it would not come back out of the hole I’d screwed it into. There is nothing on Earth more annoying than a screw that keeps turning (and I don’t mean in a good way) the blasted thing just turns and turns and turns. Oh and did I mention there were 2 of them? No? Oh and did I also mention I needed both those screw to get the door back onto the machine? Right – oh and to top it off, mother would be home by 5 and spitting bullets if she saw the machine any more broken than last time. I panicked to say the least. There were no men in a 30 mile radius that I knew, or who were free, to help me. And I hate to admit I need help from a man but in this case, being a girl, in a situation you can see no saving from, your reaction is to cry – and that’s when you have to surrender to the fact that men are better in these situations. There. I said it.
Thirsty minutes and a phone call to my Dad later – I had ingeniously poured olive oil into the screw hole and tapped it out from the other side. You have never seen anyone so happy in all your life than me at that moment in time! Now I could finally carry on with putting the door back on so it looked like nothing had happened since yesterday. (Which it hadn’t – obviously.)
Come Friday – and I’m waiting for the part to be delivered. It finally gets here after waiting for 3 hours, only to find that it is the wrong.bloody.door.effing.handle!!!! I am absolutely beside myself with anger. I call the manufacturers and then the worst bit happens – I realise it’s my own mistake (don’t you hate that!)
So to cut a very long story a little bit shorter, here are the things that have happened since that moment this morning, in the correct order:
- Called company to complain the part is not right
- Realised the fault is mine
- They send me a sticker to return the part (and no madame you won’t get the £6.99 express delivery fee back)
- I walk to the nearest postbox to send said parcel, it doesn’t fit, despite my attempts to shove it in there.
- I have to walk all the way into the high street to go to the proper post office to send it.
- I walk home and on the way stub my left toe on the pavement (blood literally gushing out the end of my toe, like leaving a Hansel and Gretel crumb trail for Twilight fans!)
- I realise I have nothing but peep toe shoes to wear to tonight’s do – awesome!
And to top that all off I had to repurchase the correct part from a different place, to arrive on Monday for more money – I love my life!
Here’s to getting pissed on a Friday to recover from the week and to feigning surprise when your mother can’t open the washing machine door.
Until next time…. J x