On Sunday we had a roast dinner. A big fat chicken with the first sprouts of the season. Did I ever tell you how much I LOVE sprouts?
It felt like I had used nearly every utensil and receptacle in the kitchen as I filled the dishwasher, I stuck things in, took them out and rearranged them again to get everything in. At last the work surface was clear and the dishwasher crammed.
I put a tablet in, pressed the button and … and … and … the bloody door wouldn’t shut.
I pulled both shelves out and pushed things around a bit. Nothing obvious in the way.
I pulled the drawers out and checked the runners, everything was fine. By now I was getting frustrated, I may have been swearing under my breath and I shouted for The Husband, fixer of all things technical.
By the time he arrived I had steam coming out of my ears and may have called the dishwasher something that rhymes with PUCKING CAT. He told me to calm down which only made the steam blow harder.
The 4 year old followed him in. Watching Mummy having a meltdown must be an event not to be missed because the 6 year old arrived shortly after.
Swearing (under my breath again with the presence of small ears) and spitting feathers, I was holding up the drawer which I had once more pulled out which was full and rather heavy. My hands were smeared with gravy, there may have been some mashed potato in my hair too, I was harassed and slightly sweaty. I demonstrated, once more, the PUCKING CAT of a dishwasher to my avid audience.
I felt a bit like this …
I wouldn’t allow The Husband near the dishwasher. Just as he was about to elbow me out of the way the 4 year old, who had been watching the scene with great interest, pointed at the potato ricer, and said “It’s that”. I looked at him, at the 6 year old and at The Husband who said, slightly too smugly “You’ll be REALLY pissed off if he’s right”.
One potato ricer adjusted and the god damn door shut, just like that. Like a PUCKING dream.
… and yes I was pissed off, really pissed off. Bloody know it all 4 year old.