Last month, I suddenly realized that I've lived with crappy washing machines all my life. Some old beast in the basement growing up, followed by horrible ancient machines in rental houses, trips to the laundromat and coin-operated numbers next door to basement apartments. Horror story: 2001, returning to the Laundromat to find my clothes soaking in ice-cold water, with a large cake of gloppy, un-dissolved soap in the middle. To add insult to injury, I had to carry the dripping mass back up a steep hill to my apartment. In the rain. I swore never to use a Laundromat again.
So when this washing machine died in June with a horrible screech and refusal to agitate or spin, after repeated resuscitations and prayers to the god of ochre-coloured appliances, it was time to accept my lot as a grown-up and consider the alternatives. As luck would have it, fate smiled on me, and I happened upon an almost-new W&D set online.
Four days and three strained friendships later (180-degree turn down a ridiculously tight staircase) I had washed everything in my house, clothes and wool blankets and things I'd never thought to wash before. The walls still echo with my exclamations of how good everything smells, how quickly everything air-dries even despite the defunct laundry line. How my clothes no longer make me look like I've been rolling around in the cat litter box.
Did I mention they're front-loading? Oh, yeah. The cheeky round bubble-window in the front that looks like a spaceship, the quiet smug swish as the clothes languidly flop on top of themselves over and over again, never to get stretched or strained by something so unsophisticated as an agitator. I can't say I've actually sat and watched and entire load from start to finish, but somehow watching the laundry gives a satisfactory air of something done correctly. Would it be going too far to say that it makes puts a smile in my soul?