Open Writing

I am so relieved to wake up this morning and start a new day! Yesterday was a disaster . . . a domestic version of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. It began harmlessly enough.

I looked out the window and it was raining . . . hard! In fact most people were calling out merrily that it was good to see rain again—a sentiment I concurred with as it would put out our bush fire and settle the smoke. In fact I was so buoyed with optimism I decided to use the three rotting bananas eyeing me reproachfully in the fruit bowl and make a banana and sultana loaf. This I duly did, noting that the creaming of butter and sugar was not going quite as smoothly as usual. Not to worry. This is my fool-proof recipe—apart from the time I inadvertently added arrowroot instead of bicarb. to the mix. I merrily continued on my Nigella way and placed it lovingly in the oven, checking after 20 minuters or so . . . very brown but enthusiastically risen! Hmm . . . thinks . . . consults recipe . . . oops! Have doubled the amount of sugar and been over-enthusiastic with rising agents. Too late now. Hope for the best. Watch as mixture dribbles down side of cake tin. Decide not to watch.

What next? Ah yes, the washing. First load in the dryer, while second load in the machine. Reassuring whirring noises then . . . clunk . . . followed by eerie silence. Shout for husband Don to examine neighbour’s lights and our trip switch, which necessitates him going outside and drowning. Both seem O.K. (Don less so) which is a worry as I am now imagining big bills for repairs on white goods. Bright idea . . . check power surge protector board to which dryer, dishwasher and machine are all plugged in. Discover this has tripped. Push the red button and all starts up again. Relieved but shaken. A few minutes later piercing beeps shatter my nerves again as the steam from the dryer sends off the smoke detector . Climb up on wobbly chair and perform delicate twisting manoeuvres to remove battery. Don’t tell the Fire Authority. Make mental note to reverse procedure when drying completed.

Must put dishwasher on as there are yesterday’s dishes and the clutter from abortive cake cooking to deal with. Load machine, press button . . . nothing. Panic. Run round in circles making chook (chicken) noises with pink rubber glove on head. In a last desperate attempt I move the dial half a degree to the left and off it goes. Retire shaking. An hour later confidence restored having successfully extracted cake from tin. Not burnt but deeply browned as Grandma used to say.

I decide in a moment of over-confidence that the dishwasher could do with cleaning before it smells. Empty dishwasher without breaking anything so confidence almost fully restored. Extract my Finish dishwasher cleaner and read instructions. Looks easy. Away we go. Open after full cycle and discover that they tell lies. The top has not opened automatically even though I had inverted the bottle and removed the tape. Will help it along by piercing the top. Away again. Machine make noises—for ages and ages—but dial does not turn. Investigate. Washer full of foam, which floods floor when I open the door. Clear up. Still does not work. Open door again. Floods again. General equilibrium not helped by sound of heavy snoring coming from bedroom! Soul-mate has gone to have a little snooze.

More chook impersonations. Towels, mops etc. Try to spin wet towels in washing machine forgetting that due to the eccentricities of the plumbing (son-in-law) you must not have dishwasher and washing machine on together. More weird noises, both animate and inanimate. Adopt yoga position. Practice deep breathing. Eventually clear up mess, trying not to think about water and electricity. Dishwasher still full of foam. Play with dial and eventually get it to pump out.

Time for evening meal preparation. I cannot even manage to cook sausages without [a] burning them and [b] throwing them on the floor when taking them out to make {c] very lumpy onion gravy. Bung in oven and tell fellow inmates they are lucky to get fed at all. Soul-mate, either in spirit of self-preservation or genuine pity for the blubbering wreck before him, takes me into the garage and we share a bottle and a half of Merlot.

Life begins to take on a rosier hue! Shakes settle. Sausages are consumed. Retreat to bed. Watch latest mind-numbing episode of The Bill. Drift off to sleep, having survived—just!

© E.P. Lutton