Washing machine roulette, and other ways to spend a Saturday

I’ve had a marvellous week, in the sense that I’m still living, seeing as today could have had up to four alternate endings, two involving an obituary.

The beginning of my brush with death was our annual appliance inspection, which for the uninitiated is where some brummie turns up on the doorstep of your rented property, berates you for working on a call centre and not being a world famous novelist (he says being too scared to let anyone read my work is holding me back – no shit, I hadn’t worked that out), pokes at various gas and electric powered items and condemns your washing machine.

So I weighed up my options:

1. Accept that my washer has morphed into a potential 240volt weilding maniac and go to the launderette.

2. Ignore the advice of the man with the red ‘do not use’ stickers, and continue to use the psychopathic zanussi.

Having thought long and hard about it, the chance of death by washing machine had to be statistically lower than being murdered down the local launderette and opted for a game of washing machine roulette, safe in the knowledge that should I get fried my demise would be much quicker than during a failed mugging in Cradley’s finest washeteria.

2 loads later, I’m still here. Me 2, Zanussi 0.

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