The Washing Machine & The Fireman

Following the trauma of the uninvited bed guest and then the inconvenience of the loony landlord, I moved out of London up to Royston. After a long search, I found an apartment with a living room just big enough for my sofa, which strangely enough always seemed to be the tipping point. This is what the rental agency referred to as a bijou, in other words small! On the plus side, the wallpaper was white, and the carpeting, apart from being shag, was a neutral colour.

It took me a while and a lot of sweat, to arrange my furniture and empty my boxes, at one point even finding myself trapped by my own belongings due to the lack of space. When my son sat on his bed, arms outstretched, he could touch the wall opposite, as the realtor said, bijou.

Why I chose that Sunday to swap out the washing machines, when I was expecting a lunch guest, is a question I still occasionally ask myself. The apartment came with one, but having seen the vast culture of mould growing inside I decided against using it, and all that was left to do was connect my washing machine. The kitchen was on the small side so it took me a while to move, inch-by-inch, the mouldy machine to the other side of the room, leaving me just enough space to push and shove my machine in its place.

I was proud of myself. The hard part was over, all I needed to do was connect the machine to the water and I’d be all set for my first wash. Now, all you men out there before you ask; I did connect the tube to the tap and tighten the thingy-me-gig until it no longer budged and turned the water on slowly checking for leaks. I even made sure that the evacuation tube was not blocked. I loaded my mould free washing machine and set it in motion.

I still had a couple of hours before my lunch guest arrived and the food side of things was under control. I nipped into the bathroom for a quick shower, changed clothes and sat down with my book. That’s when I heard a strange gurgling sound coming from the kitchen and it had nothing to do with the cuisine. I opened the cabinet under the sink to see what was going on. Big mistake, at that precise moment, the tube came off the tap and a jet of cold water propelled me back against the fridge like a cartoon character. The shock of the cold water left me immobile while my mouth spurted four letter words.

At this juncture, I must say that I’m very lucky to have such a bright, alert son, who rushed into the living room to see what all the commotion was about. My seven-year-old called the fire brigade and then fetched towels from the airing cupboard to stop the flood of water seeping into the living room carpet. I finally jumped into action and fighting the jet of cold water, tried to turn the tap off. However, I received an electrical shock, and as I was standing ankle deep in water, I didn’t try again. As it turned out, that was the least of my problems, my elderly downstairs neighbour wanted to know why her living room lights had gone out and more to the point, why it was raining from her ceiling. I apologised profusely and briefly explained what had happened.

The fire brigade, lunch guest and mother all turned up at the same time, isn’t that always the way. This was the first time I’d ever needed the fire brigade so I didn’t realise they wore black rubber. It seemed that both my mother and lunch guest were very taken with one rubber-clad man in particular. From my mother’s point of view, a future husband for me and from my lunch guest’s point of view, the father of her future children. I on the other hand, was more concerned with the small lake growing in my kitchen. We all have priorities in life.

The firefighters came equipped with a useful industrial sized water hoover and thanks to rubber gloves, my future husband – according to my mother - managed to turn off the tap. Then his super hoover sucked up all the excess water in my kitchen and living room. Thanks to my son’s quick thinking, the overall damage to my apartment was minimal; though the poor downstairs neighbour’s ceiling had taken the brunt of the flood. The fire brigade cleared up the mess, while delighting my mother and lunch guest in the process. They reassured the elderly neighbour downstairs, and hoovered up the excess water in her apartment as well.

I did learn something, other than never to install my own washing machine. That you can be billed for calling out the fire brigade if there isn’t a potential hazard. So looking at this whole fiasco from a positive angle, I guess it was lucky that the water seeped into the downstairs neighbour’s lighting system and was in fact dangerous. Probably not so lucky for the neighbour but my insurance covered the damage, no questions asked.

The conversation around the lunch table had little to do with me installing my washing machine, and everything to do with the rubber-clad firefighter. My mother came up with a plan for me to use my son, go down to the fire station and tell Mister Perfect that he wanted to be a firefighter when he grew up - which was a lie - and would love to take a ride in his fire engine - which he probably would have enjoyed.

I admit that the man was more than a little dishy but I wouldn’t use my son as a prop and to be honest I was happy with my status quo. I did not follow up with the firefighter but I will always be grateful to the man for saving my soaked butt. To all you men out there, I learnt my lesson and now hire a professional to install my washing machine and dishwasher, just in case!