Dishwasher

It's not as though the mother of our children was particularly harsh or hard to get along with, but it has to be said that there was a time when they were (occasionally) trying.

I suppose they were being teenagers really, or at least the eldest two of them were, and while the younger was lagging somewhat in the aging stakes, she was equally happy to oblige when it came to providing the occasional discordant note.

I arrived home late one night. Perhaps it wasn't late in the sense that it was later than usual, but it was late enough for the sun to have set some time ago, leaving the footpath in sufficient darkness that had it not been painted just exactly the right shade of white to reflect the first of the moon's rays I almost certainly would have tripped over the dishwasher.

After further thought, since the thing was glowing a dull yellow sort of colour that would be a pretty fair indication that it was a street light reflecting in it rather than the moon, but I didn't take too much notice at the time, being a little curious as to how a dishwasher had taken it upon itself to fall asleep on our nature strip.

The mystery became somewhat more perplexing as I entered the house, and couldn't help but notice that apart from a hole in the kitchen joinery which appeared to be exactly the shape and size of the appliance I had just met, the place was in a near deathly silence.

I'm not sure if it was the silence, my open mouth, or my countenance which to be fair was probably reflecting an entirely more confused self than the one which usually accompanied my arrival home from another challenging day in the office, but whatever the case, my arrival was greeted not with a welcoming hug, but with a sort of barked proclamation:

"I've told them that if they didn't stack the dishwasher when I asked them, I'd get rid of it, and they could wash and dry up every meal," the voice said, in a tone and a volume that lead me to believe that either my beloved had reason to think I'd lost part, or perhaps all of my hearing during the day, or alternatively she may have been a tad unhappy about something.

Relieved that it was nothing I'd done, and anxious to ensure that it didn't become something I'd done, I expressed my wholehearted support for this splendid strategy, and set about ensuring that since it wasn't me that didn't stack the dishwasher, it shouldn't be me that washes up!

To be fair to all parties, following the events of this particular evening, the miscreants did indeed wash and dry for the next few years, until it was deemed that sufficient time had passed that perhaps dishwasher stacking could be looked forward to as a labour saving novelty.

When in due course a replacement machine was installed, it was treated with a new respect to which it soon became accustomed.

Ever since that day, to their eternal credit, while ever the young ladies in question were living with that particular machine, it was indeed regularly stacked and unstacked with something almost approaching enthusiasm, at least apparently, lest it should once more be subjected to eviction.

The question of whether the habits developed at that time remained with them beyond the bounds of that particular kitchen is a subject perhaps best left for a future post, although it is suffice to say that at the time of writing, as none of them currently own a dishwasher, the question is probably moot.