Sunday 7th October 2018
I hate fucking washing machines, not that I ever have, you know, fucked one. Good grief, what do you take me for? This houseboy does not get off on sexual misconduct with electrical appliances, certainly not one with a spin cycle powerful enough to rip off your arm, never mind your manhood. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, Gilli, I hear you say, either that or the voices have returned again, why do you hate fucking washing machines. I told you, I don’t, so let’s not get into all that again. Let me rephrase. I’ve fallen out of love with washing machines. They’re nothing but a source of trouble and grief for yours truly.
As you may recall, last time I passed this way, I was in the midst of a washing machine crisis. The machine surgeon duly turned up and stood staring at the appliance for what seemed like several hours, but was in fact about ten seconds. He then twiddled a few knobs, turned it on at the mains, then off, and then on again, before pulling out the powder drawer and staring into it for several more hours, or ten seconds if you’re a stickler for facts. A look of enlightenment then spread across his face and turning to me, he said:
‘You know what the trouble is don’t you?’
‘No, no,’ I said breathlessly, ‘tell me, oh wise one.’
‘You’ve overloaded it, mate, it’s knackered the bearings.’
Bloody hell, it was like he’d picked up some psychic message from Shane. I denied the allegation, and crossly asked what the heck he was going to do about getting the machine up and running again. In short, fuck all. In his opinion the machine was deceased and I required a new one. He performed a small autopsy, resulting in the machine bleeding water all over the floor. He then extracted my laundry from the guts of the machine before slapping me with a phenomenal bill and leaving to go and ruin someone else’s day.
When Shane arrived home, I duly broached the subject of buying a new machine, telling him with complete and utter honesty the reason why we needed one. ‘An electrical fault the man said, common with this brand, manufacturer should have recalled them all, miracle it just cut out instead of bursting into flames.’
Hmm, not sure he believed me, but the fact remained. We needed a new machine.
So, the hunt began. In next to no time, encouraged by some slick talk from a saleswoman in Currys, I set my heart on a Samsung AddWash machine - one of those machines with a door in the door so you can add items during the wash, like a stray sock. Three blokes equal a lot of socks and not just work socks, but sports socks, dress socks, sailing socks, etc. Stray socks are everywhere in our house, the bastards roam around like Serengeti wildebeest. I need a park ranger to round them up.
Anyway, the machine was purchased and installed by a qualified plumber who charged the equivalent of the national debt. I was threatened with actual bodily harm if I knackered it before its warranty ran out, or even after the warranty runs out. Life went on. How had we EVER lived without a machine with an add to the wash facility. We had been laundry troglodytes. Soon I was an expert in its usage. Barely a day passed without me popping open the cute little door to chuck something into the wash cycle, socks mainly, and the odd rogue pair of underpants, usually Dick’s, because he flings them willy-nilly when he’s in a hurry to get in the nuddy.
Now, before I continue with this small domestic tale, let me take you back to early June this year, a day or so before my birthday. Shane arrived home from work bearing a package emblazoned with his name and office address.
Holding it out, he said, ‘this is for you, my darling. It isn’t exactly a birthday present and I know you won’t like it, but you will wear it.’
Ominous words. I opened the package with some trepidation, fearing some BDSM horror implement, such as a cock shock collar or an anal plug with a built in chip to track me wherever I went. It wasn’t the first and it wasn’t exactly the second, but it came close. He was right. I didn’t like it. It was a wrist monitor for detecting seizures. It didn’t look bad, resembling my Smartwatch fitbit in some respects, but still I didn’t like it because of what it represented. To cut a long story short, or we’ll be here all day and I’ve got a duck in the oven, what it does is pick up epileptic activity via electrode sensors. It then sends out notifications to allocated people who can help or alert someone to help. In my case, Shane and Dick, who, if not on hand, can alert Eileen or if need be emergency services. I told Shane that my condition was nowhere near severe enough to warrant wearing such a device, but he was adamant. It was a nifty bit of kit and he’d read glowing reports about it. Therefore I was wearing it, day and night, or else. Not so much for my sake, but for his and Dick’s peace of mind.
To be fair, wearing it proved no hardship, as I said, it resembles a fitbit in a lot of ways. I got used to it pretty quickly, to the point of not being aware of it. Moreover, we all reaped an unexpected benefit in the form of a morale boost. The men folk are happier about me being home alone because if anything happens they’ll know and be able to act accordingly. Truth be told, I think it’s helped free us all from some measure of anxiety.
So, are you still with me, let’s get back to the new washing machine. As mentioned, it has a cute little door you can pop open to chuck in stuff you might have overlooked. As stated, I quickly became expert in the popping open and chucking in department. Then (cue the theme music from the film Jaws) disaster struck a week gone last Friday. I’d gathered up the laundry and stuffed it into the machine and set it going. I went upstairs to make the bed, stumbling across one of Shane’s stinky trainer socks lurking on the bedroom floor. Before Samsung this would have resulted in mega annoyance. No longer. Picking up the renegade sock I skipped happily downstairs to the utility room where I executed my pop in moves with the grace of a dancer, pull open with the right hand, toss in with the left.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT!
My eyeballs almost exploded from my head.
The sock wasn’t the only thing to blithely join the wash. My monitor shot off my wrist and went in with it. I’d been meaning to change the band for days. With continuous wear it had gone a bit slack, requiring constant adjustment. I have replacement bands. It would have taken a matter of minutes to change the worn one for a new one, but no, I couldn’t be arsed and kept putting it off. Now the monitor was in the hot wash and tumbling around, implying I was either in the throes of a savage seismic seizure or clamped in the jaws of a giant shark being thrashed through the water.
Hell let loose. The house phone rang, my mobile rang, moments later there was the sound of a key in the lock and Eileen, out of breath from running across the road, puffed out my name. Poor Eileen. Poor me! Shane was livid when he found out what had happened, and no one does livid like Shane does livid. It’s terrifying. I was left in no doubt as to how cross he was. I’d frightened the life out of everyone and all because I was too bloody idle to secure a wristband.
Fortunately the monitor survived the dunking because it’s waterproof, though as Shane pointed out, if it had come off my wrist outside, say while I was running, it would have been lost. Not a happy Daddy. I received a chilly little text shortly before he was due home that evening. I was to get out the round wooden paddle and lay it on the bed. When he got home he expected to find me bent over the end of the bed with my bottom bared ready for the spanking I deserved for my lackadaisical attitude. He was sick of telling me about pointless procrastination. He drove the lesson home with a blistering set of paddle strokes. I can tell you it was a sore bottomed, teary houseboy who sat down for dinner that Friday evening, a victim of the evil machinations of washing machines.
Technology eh? It can be a good thing, but like most things it also has a dark side, so beware.
Well, I’m off to poke a duck to see if its juices run clear (but don’t tell Dick, or he’ll be jealous.) I’m preparing a late lunch today on account of the men folk messing about on boats all morning with Mike and Leo. Rather them than me today, it’s bloody freezing outside. We actually had a frost this morning. Summer is SO over.
BFN.
I hate fucking washing machines, not that I ever have, you know, fucked one. Good grief, what do you take me for? This houseboy does not get off on sexual misconduct with electrical appliances, certainly not one with a spin cycle powerful enough to rip off your arm, never mind your manhood. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, Gilli, I hear you say, either that or the voices have returned again, why do you hate fucking washing machines. I told you, I don’t, so let’s not get into all that again. Let me rephrase. I’ve fallen out of love with washing machines. They’re nothing but a source of trouble and grief for yours truly.
As you may recall, last time I passed this way, I was in the midst of a washing machine crisis. The machine surgeon duly turned up and stood staring at the appliance for what seemed like several hours, but was in fact about ten seconds. He then twiddled a few knobs, turned it on at the mains, then off, and then on again, before pulling out the powder drawer and staring into it for several more hours, or ten seconds if you’re a stickler for facts. A look of enlightenment then spread across his face and turning to me, he said:
‘You know what the trouble is don’t you?’
‘No, no,’ I said breathlessly, ‘tell me, oh wise one.’
‘You’ve overloaded it, mate, it’s knackered the bearings.’
Bloody hell, it was like he’d picked up some psychic message from Shane. I denied the allegation, and crossly asked what the heck he was going to do about getting the machine up and running again. In short, fuck all. In his opinion the machine was deceased and I required a new one. He performed a small autopsy, resulting in the machine bleeding water all over the floor. He then extracted my laundry from the guts of the machine before slapping me with a phenomenal bill and leaving to go and ruin someone else’s day.
When Shane arrived home, I duly broached the subject of buying a new machine, telling him with complete and utter honesty the reason why we needed one. ‘An electrical fault the man said, common with this brand, manufacturer should have recalled them all, miracle it just cut out instead of bursting into flames.’
Hmm, not sure he believed me, but the fact remained. We needed a new machine.
So, the hunt began. In next to no time, encouraged by some slick talk from a saleswoman in Currys, I set my heart on a Samsung AddWash machine - one of those machines with a door in the door so you can add items during the wash, like a stray sock. Three blokes equal a lot of socks and not just work socks, but sports socks, dress socks, sailing socks, etc. Stray socks are everywhere in our house, the bastards roam around like Serengeti wildebeest. I need a park ranger to round them up.
Anyway, the machine was purchased and installed by a qualified plumber who charged the equivalent of the national debt. I was threatened with actual bodily harm if I knackered it before its warranty ran out, or even after the warranty runs out. Life went on. How had we EVER lived without a machine with an add to the wash facility. We had been laundry troglodytes. Soon I was an expert in its usage. Barely a day passed without me popping open the cute little door to chuck something into the wash cycle, socks mainly, and the odd rogue pair of underpants, usually Dick’s, because he flings them willy-nilly when he’s in a hurry to get in the nuddy.
Now, before I continue with this small domestic tale, let me take you back to early June this year, a day or so before my birthday. Shane arrived home from work bearing a package emblazoned with his name and office address.
Holding it out, he said, ‘this is for you, my darling. It isn’t exactly a birthday present and I know you won’t like it, but you will wear it.’
Ominous words. I opened the package with some trepidation, fearing some BDSM horror implement, such as a cock shock collar or an anal plug with a built in chip to track me wherever I went. It wasn’t the first and it wasn’t exactly the second, but it came close. He was right. I didn’t like it. It was a wrist monitor for detecting seizures. It didn’t look bad, resembling my Smartwatch fitbit in some respects, but still I didn’t like it because of what it represented. To cut a long story short, or we’ll be here all day and I’ve got a duck in the oven, what it does is pick up epileptic activity via electrode sensors. It then sends out notifications to allocated people who can help or alert someone to help. In my case, Shane and Dick, who, if not on hand, can alert Eileen or if need be emergency services. I told Shane that my condition was nowhere near severe enough to warrant wearing such a device, but he was adamant. It was a nifty bit of kit and he’d read glowing reports about it. Therefore I was wearing it, day and night, or else. Not so much for my sake, but for his and Dick’s peace of mind.
To be fair, wearing it proved no hardship, as I said, it resembles a fitbit in a lot of ways. I got used to it pretty quickly, to the point of not being aware of it. Moreover, we all reaped an unexpected benefit in the form of a morale boost. The men folk are happier about me being home alone because if anything happens they’ll know and be able to act accordingly. Truth be told, I think it’s helped free us all from some measure of anxiety.
So, are you still with me, let’s get back to the new washing machine. As mentioned, it has a cute little door you can pop open to chuck in stuff you might have overlooked. As stated, I quickly became expert in the popping open and chucking in department. Then (cue the theme music from the film Jaws) disaster struck a week gone last Friday. I’d gathered up the laundry and stuffed it into the machine and set it going. I went upstairs to make the bed, stumbling across one of Shane’s stinky trainer socks lurking on the bedroom floor. Before Samsung this would have resulted in mega annoyance. No longer. Picking up the renegade sock I skipped happily downstairs to the utility room where I executed my pop in moves with the grace of a dancer, pull open with the right hand, toss in with the left.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT!
My eyeballs almost exploded from my head.
The sock wasn’t the only thing to blithely join the wash. My monitor shot off my wrist and went in with it. I’d been meaning to change the band for days. With continuous wear it had gone a bit slack, requiring constant adjustment. I have replacement bands. It would have taken a matter of minutes to change the worn one for a new one, but no, I couldn’t be arsed and kept putting it off. Now the monitor was in the hot wash and tumbling around, implying I was either in the throes of a savage seismic seizure or clamped in the jaws of a giant shark being thrashed through the water.
Hell let loose. The house phone rang, my mobile rang, moments later there was the sound of a key in the lock and Eileen, out of breath from running across the road, puffed out my name. Poor Eileen. Poor me! Shane was livid when he found out what had happened, and no one does livid like Shane does livid. It’s terrifying. I was left in no doubt as to how cross he was. I’d frightened the life out of everyone and all because I was too bloody idle to secure a wristband.
Fortunately the monitor survived the dunking because it’s waterproof, though as Shane pointed out, if it had come off my wrist outside, say while I was running, it would have been lost. Not a happy Daddy. I received a chilly little text shortly before he was due home that evening. I was to get out the round wooden paddle and lay it on the bed. When he got home he expected to find me bent over the end of the bed with my bottom bared ready for the spanking I deserved for my lackadaisical attitude. He was sick of telling me about pointless procrastination. He drove the lesson home with a blistering set of paddle strokes. I can tell you it was a sore bottomed, teary houseboy who sat down for dinner that Friday evening, a victim of the evil machinations of washing machines.
Technology eh? It can be a good thing, but like most things it also has a dark side, so beware.
Well, I’m off to poke a duck to see if its juices run clear (but don’t tell Dick, or he’ll be jealous.) I’m preparing a late lunch today on account of the men folk messing about on boats all morning with Mike and Leo. Rather them than me today, it’s bloody freezing outside. We actually had a frost this morning. Summer is SO over.
BFN.