Poison River Station, day 1012

What can I say? I've been doomed. I knew, for a long time, that it was coming, but could not avoid it. And now it is here – a fact, a constant, a statement, a whole new field of dangerous concepts, especially to a delicate and fragile person such as myself.

I have bought a washing machine.

The K is to blame for that, of course, since she's been throwing anything I wear to the basket as soon as it got off me, sometimes even sooner than that. She claims, of course, that it was entirely MY decision to buy the thing. Well, I ask you – what is better? spending an hour or two a week sitting like a beggar on a plastic chair near a laundromat, or buying a machine and trust your girlfriend to deal with it from here on?


A week before buying the machine we stopped all outside washing activities. Alas, when the machine was bought, it turned out that a technician is needed in order to set it up. "It's merely a small setback," I said. Indeed, two days and about 5 kilograms of dirty clothes later said workman arrived, installed everything, explained some concepts (the only fact I can recall is that it's a 1000RPM machine – which is why I selected it in the first place) and left.
The first test of the new machine had to be slightly postponded, however, since it was raining at the time.
It also rained the next day.
The day afterwards was bright and shiny, white clouds in blue skies, birds singing, the whole bit. The machine, alas, refused to work.
"Have you pressed button number 3?" said the technical support person over the phone.
"I have not touched any of the buttons except for 'Operate'," I said. "Can you please send someone over here?"
"You MUST have touched button number 3!" said techsup.
"Not only that I havn't touched it, I can assure you that this particular button was NEVER pressed since the machine arrived here, at which time it was de-pressed."
"Why did you press it, then?"
"Right, right, don't shout, we'll send someone over. Just make sure you don't press button number 3 again, ok?"

By the time the technician arrived, the mountain of laundry in the living room got as big as a small brontozaurus and at least as smelly. It also reminded us very strongly of the singing plant from "A Little Shop of Horrors", though it was somewhat noisier. The laundry basket was also flowing, and leftovers could be found all over the station – in the kitchen, the porch and even in several strategical places inside the studio. The technician arrived, thus, to what looked very much like a war zone. He went to the machine, plugged out something this or other, drained the water which were left inside the machine since last thursday or so, which contained a little piece of foam-plastic, about the size of a medium coin.
"That's it," said the technicial and left.

The K has been doing laundry ever since. The mountain in the living room has dropped in size, though it hasn't vanished yet. The waste basket is still being rehabilitated. Me? I've had some fun renewing the laundry lines, and that's about the last time I ever saw the new machine.

Now she's talking about buying a laundry drier.