I had a washing machine misadventure this afternoon.
The floor downstairs in Lucy’s new house is uncarpeted bare boards, so she is going to take one of our rugs.
We have got several of these, all rolled up in the attic. Mostly they are there because they are too grubby to be put on the floor, and too difficult to wash. I have washed them before, by hanging them over the washing line and scrubbing, and then hosing them off with the hosepipe, but it is a tiresomely messy wet chore, and not one I cared to repeat.
In consequence, when we discussed Lucy’s floor, I was not sure what would be the best thing to do.
We went up to the attic and inspected the nicest of the rugs, which was actually huge.
This was once a beautiful object. We bought it in India and it was stunning, silky and thick and brilliantly coloured.
It had not been improved either by Roger Poopy’s toilet training or by his teething. Eventually, because of its consequent undesirability, it had been rolled up and dumped until somebody got round to doing something about it.
That was a couple of years ago.
I thought, in a moment of inspiration, that since it was already in a bad way, perhaps the thing to do would be to stick it into the washing machine. The worst that could happen would be that it would fall to bits, and since we never use it anyway we would have lost nothing.
Lucy agreed, and we dragged it downstairs, marvelling at the persistence of the dog smell. Indeed, it smelled so awful that as we reached the kitchen, Roger Poopy looked up guiltily and slunk away, just in case he had inadvertently done something dreadful which he had forgotten about.
We put it in the washing machine. It was a bit difficult to stuff it all in, and I had to put my foot in the door to shut it, but we managed it in the end.
The water went a horrible brown colour, but it washed all right, and spun properly, after which things began to go wrong.
The washing machine finished its cycle, and I waited for the inexplicable and eternally irritating two minutes during which washing machines keep your clothes in quarantine whilst they consider whether or not they might allow you to open the door.
I opened the door.
The rug had spun beautifully. It was stuck to the sides of the drum.
I tugged it.
It would not come out. It was too heavy and thick. It had plastered itself to the sides of the drum, and would no longer bend enough to be moved.
I tugged it a bit harder. Then I spun the drum round a bit and tried to unstick the rug.
It would not budge.
I knelt down in front of the washing machine and tried to loosen it.
It stayed stuck.
In the end I had to go out into the garden, where Mark was building a thing called a manifold. This looks a bit like a Tudor musical instrument, and is for the new solar water heater. I was obliged to confess that I had done something stupid, and we might have a washing machine with a rug in it for ever.
Mark came in and got the rug out. It took ages. In the end he was laughing so much that he could not get it out anyway, and had to sit on the floor with his shoulders shaking until he was sensible again.
It has come very much cleaner. We hung it on the line and thought that it was beautiful, what a pity we have got dogs.
Lucy does not have dogs. It will look lovely in her house.
You might be pleased to hear that life is continuing to improve, and I think that the dark chasm of despair has fallen behind me. The pile of moving-out things stacked by the back door has become bigger, we will not be able to see the fireplace soon. Lucy sanded the surface off an old chest of drawers today, and it looks immeasurably better. Better still, people are ringing up all the time with offers of help.
Number One Daughter has offered a quilt, and my brother a bed. My parents have got a reading lamp and a wardrobe. It is going to be all right. Everybody has been so thoughtful. Her house will be lovely and she will be contented there.
The picture is of the afternoon’s creative activity in the unfinished conservatory. Mark has done quite a bit more than that to the manifold now, but he had to stop in the end because we went to work.
Lucy will not be the only one with a lovely house.
If you have not seen it, don’t miss Oliver’s post, added this evening. It is called Ramblings.
