After 25 years my washing machine conked out... but my new one with its 105 page manual put me in a spin!
This is not to say we don’t appreciate them - of course we do, because washing machines are miracles of engineering which have transformed our lives, are the epicentre of the domestic treadmill, and will plod along uncomplainingly for years, getting the job done, no contemplation necessary.
But last week our washing machine broke down. It was an excellent, German-made machine which had worked extremely hard and very well for, believe it or not, some 25 years, giving absolutely no trouble.
I decided to buy the new one from the same maker, and since the other one had been so good. The shop offered two options from this manufacturer, and, as I believe in investing in the best domestic appliances I can afford, I went for the more expensive one.
It was delivered quickly, but even so, the laundry basket was jammed. It was a Saturday, we were having fabulous hot, sunny weather and I wanted to get going.
Fisrt, I took off all the Styrofoam. There was a large, sealed plastic package containing various documents. One of these was a detailed 105-page Operating Manual.
I flicked through the manual. There were phrases like Optical Interface. Control Field. Sensor Controls. Setting Numerical Values. There was something called TwinDos and other things called Ulraphase1 and UltraPhase2. There was mention of a SmartGrid.
Once the washing machine was connected to the Wifi network, it explained, I would be able to operate my washing machine remotely, access information about the operating status of my washing machine, and access information about a programme sequence on the washing machine.
I could feel my head start to pound.
Tears in my eyes, going full-tilt into panic mode, I summoned the men of the house and waved the thick manual at them.
On the front page, it said “To avoid the risk of accidents or damage to the machine it is essential to read these instructions before it is installed and used for the first time.” The word essential was in bold type.
“Yerra, grand,” they said, and started to install the machine.
“Stop!” I cried. You have to read all the instructions first!
I started to read out the instructions. There was a lot of stuff about Optical Interface, Control Field, Sensor Controls, and the need to Set Numerical Values. “I don’t want this washing machine,” I cried in a panic.
My son, home for the weekend, said in the patient voice he uses when he is trying not to sound too obviously patronizing:
“Ah Mum, now, sure you know what an Optical Interface is.”
“I have not got the slightest idea,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. “They just put all those techy twiddles on the machine and use all of this annoying technical jargon just to show off.”
“Well, you chose it,” my husband observed.
“But I thought it was only a very, very good washing machine. You should have told me,” I cried.
“Ah, now, you picked a very good washing machine,” my husband said in the super-kindly voice you use with a distraught child who has just realized he picked the wrong ice-cream from the supermarket fridge.
I caught them exchanging eyebrow raises.
“What?” I said. “What?”
“Look,” my husband said, “you just stand there and read out the installation and calibration instructions to us.”
“The what?” I said.
“Just read the manual to us,” my son said very calmly.
“Show it here for a minute. I’ll find the best place for you to start.”
I shoved the handbook at him.
He flicked through the pages, paused, snorted and handed the manual to his father, pointing to a line.
“What?” I said.
“What now?”
“Em, there’s a bit here on Page 7 that we thought might help you,” my son said, smirking
“Give it here,” I said, and snatched it back.
I read: “The washing machine can only be used by people with reduced physical, sensory or mental capabilities, or lack of experience or knowledge if they are supervised whilst using it or have been shown how to use it safely and recognize and understand the consequences of incorrect operation.”
“You just keep reading those instructions, Ma,” my son said kindly.
You had to ‘set up the language’. You had to ‘set up the app’. You had to ‘commission the TwinDos’, and ‘set UltraPhase1 and UltraPhase 2’. You had to ‘start the calibration programme’.
I don’t know if it is medically possible to feel your blood pressure rising, but I did.
I kept reading and I didn’t dare look at what they were doing.
“All done,” they said after a good bit of pushing and tinkering.
“Stop worrying, Ma,” my son said. “You’ll get the hang of it. Eventually.”
They sniggered.
Suddenly an expression of deep alarm crossed my husband’s face.
“Quick,” he shouted at me.
“Quick, quick!”
“What?” I screamed, now utterly panicked.
“Turn on the tap there on the sink,” he yelled. “Quick!!”
I rushed over and turned on the tap.
“Which tap?” I cried. “The cold one? The hot one? What’s wrong?” I stuttered, my heart hammering. To be safe, I turned both taps full on.
“What is it? Oh my God, what’s wrong with the thing now?”
I turned around and the scoundrels were knotted.
Knotted.
“Gotcha,” they roared and went off to the shed, leaving me all alone to put on the first wash.
App?
