We are in crisis mode here in our Peaceful Home. Something really bad has happened, and on the sliding scale of disasters, it is about as bad as it gets.
We have a broken dishwasher.
Now you may look at me smugly at this point and say something along the lines of:-
"Oh I have a dishwasher too. It's my husband/kids/mother."
Well that may be so. It is at my in-laws' home. She cooks, he washes up. Except when we visit. Then she cooks and my beloved washes up. Sanctimoniously, I might add, because he doesn't do it here. Anyway, that's what happens. I usually manage to find something else to do like putting Jemimah to bed or tidying our room or some other chore of great significance. Whatever it is I generally feel guilty for the rest of the day and end up ironing my in-laws' underwear or socks or pyjamas or something equally grovelly.
Anyhow, if this is you then you probably shouldn't be reading this post. Come to think about it, you probably won't find much to read on my blog, because I am not a Supermum and you obviously are. Or your wife is. Whatever.
I need my dishwasher. Did you hear that? I said I NEED my dishwasher.
My husband recognises this need. He looked at me seriously over dinner on Sunday night:
Him - I know that it is unusual for me to ask this, but do you think we can eat out until the dishwasher is fixed?
Me - What? Every meal?
Him - Oh no, not every meal, only the evening ones. You don't make dishes for breakfast and lunch, do you?
He was serious too. Of course we do. Then there are the cups from all the coffees. There is a limit to the number of times that these can be reused. You can go from tea to coffee, for example, but not the other way round. Yuck.
Needless to say, we're not eating out, but I am doing the dishes so that he doesn't need to. I've already washed up today three times, and we haven't even had lunch yet. It is 2:12 pm as I write but I'm procrastinating because then I'll need to wash the plates and the glasses, the coffee cup, the chopping board and the bread knife. Ugh.
The dishwasher doctor came yesterday with his bag and his hat, and he knocked on the door with a rat-a-tat-tat. He looked at the dishwasher and he shook his head. I swear you could see those dollar signs whizzing around in his eyeballs as he looked at me gravely. "It'll be at least a week," he said. "I've never seen a dishwasher do that before."
So in the meantime I'm soaking in Palmolive. Soft hands are about the only silver lining that I can see just now.
While on the subject of Madge, anybody else think her laugh makes her sound like Witchiepoo from H. R. Pufnstuff? Anyone who reckons you should go near Palmolive three times a day just has to be evil anyhow. So there. That's what I think.
Gotta go. The dishes await. Again.