A collection of short stories and journalistic commentaries depicting my simple life
and how I fit in with the modern day universe of our times


Every now and again, writing for blogs can become both wearisome and daunting as you sit at your desk fighting for ideas as to what to actually bloody write. And apologies dear reader, because it seems that today is one of those days. And in referring back to the many and varied manuals I have on the subject, I am told to write about just anything that can carry some form of commentary. Oh well let’s give it a try then....

(This is not based on a true story. This is a true story, and is told exactly as it happened. Ok, maybe I went a little overboard in embellishing the facts but the bare bones can safely be assumed to be correct, only the name of the store has been omitted - to protect me from being sued.)

A year or so ago my wife (yes another wife, that will be 46 I’ve had now since the start of this site), had to go to France for about 10 days for reasons that are really best left unmentioned (mainly because at the time of writing, I hadn’t made them up yet).

Anyway, I was left at home alone with the dog (ooh look, I haz a dog too). Now I didn’t mind it, really. It gave me a bit of space to slob out for awhile. Not that my illusionary wife was a nag or anything, but a guy simply gets tired of being reminded to pick his clothes up off the floor all the time.

Now the story starts about two days before she was due to get back as ‘our’ washing machine broke. And when she gets back, naturally she has a bag full of dirty washing that she thought she would be able to get washed the same day, being the tidy person that she thinks she is.

When I explained to her that the washer was broken, she wasn’t overly happy. But, having just travelled back from France to London to Manchester and finally to Rottingstall; all in the space of one day, she wasn’t in any frame of mind to give me a chewing out. She’d save that for the next day, she promised me, when she could do a more proper job. Something for me to look forward to, I’m sure you’ll agree.

The next day of course had to be a Sunday. We decided one – nil to her, to go to the local electronics store to buy a new washer, since the guarantee on the broken one had run out two days before and it would be cheaper in the long run to get a new one.

We went into the store and proceeded to the washer section. There were signs all over the store promising next day delivery, seven days a week. And so after much careful consideration and thought, we found one that my wife informed me we both liked.

We found a sales assistant (not an easy job on a Sunday, even in a store as small as this one) and proceeded to make the purchase. We then requested next day delivery. But we were told that, if we actually bought the washer that day, the earliest that they could deliver it would be Thursday. So much for next day.

However, if we came in first thing the next morning (Monday), they could probably arrange to have it delivered on Tuesday. (How the Hell does that work then?)

So the next morning found me at about 9:06 AM walking back into the same store to re-make the purchase. Everything was arranged, and I was told that the delivery would be between 7:00 AM and 1:00 PM. That was satisfactory to me, and I left.

As the next day dawned, I really didn’t expect the washer to be delivered at 7:00 AM, and figured the earliest it would be, would be about 9:00, although I also assumed it would be closer to the 1:00 estimate.

Naturally, by 1:30 there was still no delivery. I called the depot and was told that the delivery van was having problems, (Imagine a van hauled up at the kerb clutching a bottle of vodka whilst chanting football songs), but they were nevertheless about to leave the depot at any minute.

When 5:00 rolled around and there was still no washer, I called again. I was told that the delivery van had completely broken down now (Picture the van in rehab) and they would deliver it tomorrow. And since I had no choice in the matter, I said OK fearing for my life at what the missus would say.

So the next day dawned (days have a tendency to do that, I have found.) And to cut a long story short, the washer was finally delivered. But, when I made the arrangements, I was assured that they delivery men would also take the old washer away.

When they brought the washer, they said that they couldn’t take the old one away, as their van was too small. (HUH? How does that one work? The two washers were the same blooming size!). And to make matters worse, they just dumped the new one in the middle of the kitchen, still in its wrapping.

To give you an idea of the size of the kitchen for this episode, imagine a phone booth, double it in size, and now you have a pretty good idea of how big the kitchen is. Big enough for dramatic effect I’m sure you’ll agree.

So I called the company once again to complain. I was told that arrangements would be made to pick up our washer the next day.

The next day (yep, you guessed it) . . . dawned. I waited in for hour after hour, until finally, at about 5:00, I called to make polite enquiries as to when our washer was going to be picked up. I was told that the washer had been picked up from the back door and they had a signature to prove it.

Now, I need to make a brief interjection here because the house backs onto a field. There is a three foot or so stone wall at the back of the garden. So in order to pick up the washer from the back door the people would have A: had to know where to go, and B: would have had to lift the washer up over the wall and into the truck.

But all of that not withstanding, I asked the lady how the washer could have been picked up when I was calling her whilst sitting on the fooking washing machine in question!

Summarily I then apologized for yelling and asked when the washer would be picked up. I was told that the earliest they could get it was the end of next week, and I would need to get it to the curb myself. I said that was completely unacceptable. I (for effect) had a bad back and would be unable to move it (I really did have a bad back at the time. And many people tell me my front ain’t that good either.) and, anyway, we couldn’t use our kitchen or new washer until the old one had been moved and the new one put in. The lady said she was sorry but that was the best she could do. I said that it wasn’t good enough and hung up. (Yeah that told her).

In the end, I had to call the council to take the old washer away. It took nearly as long as it would have taken the company to do it, I still had to get it to the curb myself and I had to pay £15.00 for the privilege.

And now you know the story of why I won’t ever go into the store that shall remain nameless. Or you would do if this story wasn’t a complete fabrication. After all I’m a PadPimper specialising in kitchens and appliances. A washing machine would be the least of my worries.

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1 Comment:

  1. stephie said...
    I just reshared your blog on digg! I thought this was very funny and not far from the truth in Canada! Keep up the good work!

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