There was a day when the washing machine decided to display an error message. It was a Saturday. Birds chattered in the trees outside. A couple of visitors were coming over to critique the state of your furniture and interior decorating choices. There were many things to do. There wasn’t enough time to visit a repair person or find another machine.
The thought of connecting your foot with this innocent looking machine sent a jolt of joy to your demeanour. You thought how lovely it would be to throw this machine at the visitors when they walked into your home to inspect and patronise you and yours so ardently.
Standing in front of your trusty steed of a washing machine, you could do nothing but think about how the washing would be washed.
Would it be by some divine hand that the clothes would become wet and clean?
Would there be another option, such as a personal servant?
Would you give up and throw them out the front door?
The error message jolted you from a life of comfortable bliss, in which the clothes went into a machine and then came out smelling sweet and feeling wet yet dry.
Now you’re faced with manually scrubbing the little beasts with your hands, wood, kitchen utensils, perhaps the dishwasher, or God knows what else.
That day you realised that the washing machine of your life keeps fucking with your clothes.