What I was planning to write about today was my impressive fruit and veg consumption, following a) the arrival in the house of a food processor and b) my setting up an extremely grown up and middle class arrangement with Abel & Cole, whereby they bring us organic avocados and celeriac every week (well, and more prosaic things like onions) and we pay by direct debit so it's not even like spending real money.
But instead I got home to find the dishwasher was bust. Kaput. On the fritz. Etc. Properly: we scooped all the water out of it, I sucked on various bits of pipework (through a tea towel, like *that's* going to stop me catching anything) and blasted various holes with my hole blaster thing, but we came finally to the conclusion that there was no blockage: the pump has gone.
Now I am deeply, some would say unhealthily, attached to my dishwasher, but the fact remains that it is ten years old, and I am not sure what to do. M thinks we should get it repaired as he comes from a make do and mend generation. I support this in theory but find it hard to believe Bosch are still servicing machines that are this old in anything like an economical way.
It will be ok. Of course it will. But in the meantime I feel overwhelmed by crud and complexity. It feels so much bigger than it is.
We had pasta and salad for tea, as it was gone 8.30 before we surrendered, soggy-kneed and smelly handed. The swede, leeks and parsnips stared at me accusingly from the side. And forget about juicing: even looking at the food processor generates a ton of washing up.
I'm off to watch Desperate Housewives. They don't have these kinds of problems.
joella
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