A few months ago, our relatively new dishwasher went kaput accompanied by a rather large explosion. Although less than two years old, it was well out of warranty as J had bought it when the house was being built and had stored it in the garage for about a year before it was installed. Bad mistake!
It had only been in service for about six months when the bottom drawer (it’s a two drawer top-loading model) stopped working. This fault caused the top drawer to stop working, but by researching this piece of mechanical crap on the internet I was able to get the top bit working again.
We called out a repair guy who stripped the bottom section and stood there shaking his head. Major problem – the heating element had gone although I couldn’t see any signs of burnt wires. Anyway, he wanted €150 for his visit and another €150-€300 for fixing the element. I said goodbye to him and showed him the door, after reluctantly giving him the ‘call-out’ fee of €150. Added to the original €900 we (sorry I) paid for this machine it was becoming a rather expensive bit of useless kitchen equipment. Anyway, the top drawer continued to work satisfactorily until the night of the great explosion and then it was no more.
Enter the Marigolds as Guy and I were regularly up to our elbows in suds as we washed the dishes by hand. I don’t think J knows how to put Marigolds on – I never saw her at the kitchen sink! Despite my initial enthusiasm for washing dishes by hand I quickly got fed up with the evening ritual. By this time, J was tearing her hair out begging for a new machine which I refused to buy and so it went on Facebook. ‘I am dishwasherless’, was the posting.
Well you’d have thought that J’s extended family in Manchester had been wiped out by a rogue meteor such was the outpouring of grief and sympathy for her plight.
Given the original price of the dishwasher and the fact that I thought I knew what the problem was (a couple of small motors), I called out another repairman. Like the first he stood there shaking his head and kept using the word, ‘impossible’, over and over again.
He made a couple of calls and said it again, ‘impossible’. ‘What’s impossible’ I pleaded. ‘I’m not allowed to touch this machine because someone else has taken parts off of it. It’s impossible’, he said.
By this time I was fearing another €150 call-out fee but he refused to take any payment. I think he was embarrassed. I gave him a nice bottle of wine and sent him on his way.
And so, within an hour of the repair man leaving, the internet was buzzing and a new dishwasher was on its way. Thankfully, one which does not have flashing lights, does not have two drawers and does not have banks of sensors and electronic chips. It’s a straightforward, plain old dishwasher and as a sort of thanks, my wife was kind enough to put my unlimited generosity on Facebook. ‘I’ve got a dishwasher’, was the post.
Life is so exciting on Facebook.