#3 - Beware the Colour Catcher

Another week, another Orry household drama. This week: washing.

While I appreciate the following short tale is not really a big deal, we all have our routines and daily chores, and when something causes disruption it can feel like a huge problem.

Skill issue.

I let out an exasperated sigh as I go to open the machine’s door only for it to be locked, water clearly visible as the clothes inside slump, sodden as if dumped in a lake - soap suds gently lapping the collar of my son’s school shirt. Who hasn’t experienced the horror of a washing machine error code? E20 is my own personal hell. The drain pipe was blocked, again.

Had I been a smidge more distraught over this I’d have yelled out and agonisingly slid down the front of the machine into a lump, head in my hands, like people do in films - usually over bigger life events, but but this was Saturday night and all those clothes needed to be ready for my kids on Monday morning.

To the filter I went. I’d carried out this particular bit of washing machine maintenance many times, unscrewing the cap to get inside and fish out whatever was causing the blockage. In the past it had been a baby sock and a small cloth - the kind you need about 30 a week if you have a small child. We’d learnt our lesson here, taught by our go-to repair man (I’ll call him Geoff, even though his name isn’t Geoff), so these days all the small items are put inside washing bags first.

Foolish complacency.

Easy peasy, just got to make sure a tray is in place to catch the released water, then turn the cap and job’s a good’n… or not.

This time the cap didn’t want to turn the full way. Tiny drips of water were being released, but something was clearly stuck in there and stopping the cap from turning. Snap cut to five minutes later, me sprawled across the kitchen floor, the cap still refusing to budge, sweat building on my forehead. It was time to message Geoff (but not until Monday morning as I’m not an animal who treats tradespeople like objects who can be disturbed out of work hours).

Red raw.

The washing machine door now allowed me to open it, but my lord were these clothes wet. Without the draining spin cycle to force that water out I was left to wring out each item by hand. No amount of moisturiser was enough to heal them 20 minutes later, the redded state they were in truly only comparable to those of Roman gladiators after battle or a child who has played a bit too much International Tack and Field on the PlayStation.

A day and a half on a clothes horse, dehumidifier on, and most of the kids’ clothes were ready for Monday. Heroic isn’t a term I’d use, but I heard it whispered.

Geoff’s scalding.

Geoff is my favourite of our go-to tradespeople. He’s reliable, but he also talks in a normal way without resorting to idle chitchat, and never uses terms like “her indoors” or “the ball and chain”. I hoped this would be a quick fix for him (previous visits have involved moving the machine out from under the kitchen counter-top, which has never gone smoothly), and it was. Some pliers and a handy hooked tool, and the cap was off.

“What do you reckon it was?” he asks.

“Probably something my kids left in their pockets,” I say sheepishly, shifting the blame cowardly - something that kept me awake for about two minutes one night earlier this week before I made complete peace with it as actually being a reasonable guess.  

“It’s Colour Catchers,” says Geoff, holding up a mass with the appearance of your nan’s bread sauce after being left on the table for hours following Sunday lunch.

“Have we not had the talk?” he asks with the air of a man who’s been beaten down after years of torment.

“No,” I sort of squeak, my mind replaying old conversations at double speed as if being questioned by a school headmaster. “Damn, maybe we should bag those too. I don’t know if they even do anything.”

Life.

As Geoff prepares to leave he apologies for not coming over sooner.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get over yesterday,” he says. “It’s the anniversary of my dog’s death.”

I pause for a moment, to take it in.

“My dad died on the same date. I miss my dog more, as odd as that sounds,” Geoff adds.

I pause my pause. It's not odd at all.

“No, you spend so much time with your dogs, it’s understandable,” I say, hoping that it came across as genuine as intended. “Don’t worry about yesterday.”

Geoff leaves having knocked some off his bill for letting me down. He’s a good bloke. 

I’m going to be careful about using Colour Catchers from now on.

At the risk of sounding once again like the old man shouting at a cloud, do you remember when games had colour. They were risky, tried new things, and weren’t afraid of straying from the norm. For a long time there wasn’t even a norm to conform to. And it was brilliant. These days, as great as video games have become, that sense of just going for it not only feels rare but is financially almost impossible to fund.

Yet, despite so many attempts to lock away the splashes of red, green, blue, and orange, to give you the tried and tested result every time, things still broke. Layoffs, closures, price increases… heck, Epic just announced over 1000 people are losing their jobs. Epic, the company that makes Fortnite and the Unreal Engine that is a backbone to the games development industry. If that’s what happens when you take precautions, what the hell are we all doing loading up the machine with the same shit over and over again?

This newsletter isn’t entirely about washing machines and video games (I have other interests too). I’ll have a think about some other bits and pieces and round them up in the quick reviews below. I’m a critic, too, you see.

Things I can review:

• Bird Box (Netflix): I think I missed the boat on this one like how I missed Pokemon. Bird Box, the look and die thriller/horror that took the world by storm eight years ago, isn’t what I expected. Still, once it was obvious that this isn’t the scare-fest the marketing and social media coverage suggested, I found this to be a decent, well-acted, and original genre entry. To be fair, I did almost have a heart attack when the little girl left the boat on her own, so props for that. 3 While You Were Sleepings out of 5 The Proposals.
• Scrambled eggs (my plate): I don’t know why exactly, but I’ve gotten into scrambled eggs in a big way. I was in a fried egg phase, but after a troubling pan sticking incident I’ve given the less glamorous scramble a shot again and I’m glad I did.  5 Creme Eggs out of 5 Mini Eggs.
• Cheese on toast (my plate, again): I have a strong dislike of boring lunches, especially on the weekend. With time to prepare, I hate just dishing up something basic. Hence, when raiding the fridge and cupboards for something to make without needing to nip to the shop I settled on cheese on toast. We had some caramelised onion chutney in the fridge, loads of cheddar, a bag of old spinach, and some balsamic vinegar. Toast the bread, spread on the chutney, load with cheese, grill while frying the spinach in some balsamic. Serve together. Lovely. 5 Cathedral Cities out of 5 Laughing Cows.