25 January 2018

Unwashing

Solving a dilemma.

By Chin Chin

It’s that time of the week again.  I need to get the article in soon or those bastards on the editorial desk will fill the space with something else.  Cooking tips, I suppose.  That would be just like them.  “We don’t need features anymore, Mr Chin, just political commentary and hints on how to fry Mars bars.”   Well, I have no intention of being pushed out in that way, so back to the keyboard.  The trouble is that this week I just cannot think of anything interesting to write about.  Perhaps if I were to clear my desk it would free up my mind.

Right, this shouldn’t take too long.  Books into the bookshelf.  Oh, there’s that one the library have been writing to me about.  That had better go on the hall table.  No, maybe not; the vicar is coming to tea.  My plant seems to have died – I didn’t know you could under-water a cactus.  And the spines seem to have got into those socks.  Not ideal, but it maybe a good security precaution.  Suppose I was burgled by one of those LGBT people who had a fetish about wearing other people’s dirty socks.  Well, those spines would sort them out and no mistake.  I know, I’ll put them on the floor just under the window with the broken latch.  If I position them well, they will hide the hole made by the mice.  Double win.  But then again the mice might get into the socks and absorb their flavour before moving on to the cereals.  Cornflakes with a cheesy twist?  Not so good.

That just leaves a couple of dirty coffee cups to pop into the dishwasher.  Aaargh, the dishwasher is already full and, worse still, it is full of clean dishes.  Piles of plates and cups to put away.  I may not have many housekeeping rules, but once the dishwasher has been open, it has to be emptied.  Will I never get started on my article?

That “oh no, the dishwasher needs emptying” moment is one of the great curses of modern living.  There you are trying to be tidy, putting away a coffee cup, and you find that by opening the dishwasher you are punished for your tidiness by picking up a substantial task.  Of course you could just close the dishwasher again and pretend you haven’t seen inside it, but in most households that is unacceptable behaviour. Whether the rule is enforced by your own conscience or by other members of the family, once you have opened the dishwasher you are done for.  If only there was some sort of warning light to prevent you falling into the trap.

An extra red light feature wouldn’t quite solve the problem because it is generally the lady of the family who chooses the white goods.  Husbands may have the right to be consulted but, like the Queen’s right to be consulted on government policy, it gives influence and not power, and in this case the influence may be limited.  Imagine yourself in John Lewis:

She: “Yes, that’s the machine I want. The one with the 35 program derailer.  A very good price, don’t you agree?”

He: “What about this one with the light which tells you that it is waiting to be unloaded?  It is only slightly more expensive.”

She: “What would be the point of that?  You only have to look inside.”

He: “You know, it might serve as a reminder, if I happened to be walking past.”

Lame indeed, and in any case his influence is exhausted.  She, disregarding him with slight irritation, is now ordering the first machine from the salesman.

No, a red light isn’t the solution, so how else could we prevent our lives being made miserable by this frightful chore?

The answer, when you think about it, is simple.  Crockery-dirtying tablets.  Put one in a machine and run the rinse cycle, and it spreads dirt and old food over the clean plates and cutlery.  “Oh dear,” you can then say as you open the machine.  “It seems that we failed to turn it on.  It needs to go through its full 90 minute cycle before it is ready to be emptied.”

In fact, it might be possible to do better than that.  Different strengths of crockery-dirtying tablets would distribute different levels of dirt to match the machine’s washing programs.

“Oh look” you could say having used the ‘quick dirty’ tablet.  “All it needs is a quick wash, taking twenty-five minutes.  Unfortunately I have an appointment about then, so maybe one of the children would be able to empty it in my absence.”  You leave the house with the air of one who would empty the machine if he could, but who has been sadly deprived of the opportunity.

Perhaps the idea could be taken further.  Hang out washed clothes?  No, the dirty clothes tablet has made the entire wash go unexpectedly grey and the washing cycle needs to be run again.  Mow the lawn? No, your secret gizmo has set off the sprinkling system and the grass is too wet to mow.  Sweep the carpet?  It’s funny, the hoover seems to have developed intermittent faults.

Obviously you would have to keep your purchases of tablets and other devices secret, so they would be sold in plain paper bags, rather like dirty magazines.  Indeed you would probably have to wear a dirty raincoat to buy them.  Women who asked the stockists exactly what had been sold to their partners would be met with a bland smile.  “I am afraid I haven’t seen a gentleman of that description” would come the reply.

It is a great idea, but, alas, it is still in the future.  At the moment I have a washing machine to empty and will have to put all the cutlery and crockery away before I can start my article.  Even then my problems will not be wholly solved because I simply cannot think of a topic to write about this week.