Washday blues

Rich has just come in from work at 4pm on a Sunday afternoon – is there calm and decorum, a sense of lazy Sunday and relaxation? Nope. Daddy has yet again not “understood” the washer dryer. Whether the washing machine wants to be understood is another matter. I haven’t noticed it having an existentialist moment. No philosophical debate with the dryer. It isn’t receiving counselling from the fridge-freezer.

To Jack the concept of “instructions” is alien and he wants “one that you just turn on!” He is still having a go at Richard who, in exasperation, is suggesting he talks to the manufacturer while setting the dials to something more suitable for the few shirts inside the drum than the scalding boil wash and three hours of drying time Jack has selected!

“Is that everything?” Rich asks.

“Yes!” snaps Jack

“You’re sure there’s nothing else to go in the wash?

“Yes I’m sure – how dare you hmm murph gnash, I know what I wurgh rumph murnurmurrr…” he mutters as he walks off to the bedroom.

“Okay” Richard presses the button and it whirrs into action.

“There’s this,” he proffers some socks and underwear…

“It’s too late now.”

“Why don’t you ever wait for people to ….” Cue more fury and mad muttering.

It’s never like this on the adverts for soap powder is it?!