A Quick Fix

 

The dishwasher has not been washing properly for some time. I had cleaned out the filters and had previously found a pool of mucky looking water beneath them which I had emptied bit by bit with a dishcloth.

I’d even walked to my supermarket and had bought the special stuff that came with a warning about being an irritant to the eyes and had followed the instructions to the letter.

Though the next wash seemed better after I’d used the clean your dishwasher stuff, the washed pots still didn’t look right.

So I decided to clean out the filters again, and was shocked to find again more muddy waters that were gritty with food particles and grey particles.

I left the filters soaking in the sink while I went in search of the handbook which had come with the machine seven years ago.

My house is full of such handbooks. Every appliance comes with such a beast. They are fat tomes which say the same thing over and over in every language of the EU. My handbooks could fill a library of shelves. Luckily, this particular handbook was in one of the kitchen cupboards right at the bottom under a pile of other such handbooks and I knew where to find it.

I’d never read it before.

It described how to clean out the filters, which I’d already figured out for myself.

It described how to dismantle the rotating arms, and how to clean out the jet holes.

It was getting exciting.

It described how to unfasten a screw and to clean out the area near the pump. Wow! That sounded like advanced physics, I didn’t really want to go that far.

It said you could put detergent in the machine to wash it out.

Now that I could do.

So I popped detergent into the tablet holder part of the machine and set it on, minus the filters and the lower plate that were still soaking in the sink.

As the machine burbled I then started ironing and at the same time began to cook a frozen portion of soup (see post below).

There is a universal law that states whenever your house is in total disarray the telephone rings.

I switched off the iron, switched off the soup, switched off the radio in the kitchen, switched off the radio in the living room and scampered to reach the phone in time.

The call is from a call centre, I can hear disembodied voices. I can hear distant chattering with tell tale Indian accents, but no one is attending to my line and answering my plaintive, ‘Hello? Hello?’ It suddenly cuts off.

I go back to my ironing. I switch the radio back on which has now decided to go off the station and has to be retuned. I start the ironing again and then realise that my soup is not defrosting so I lean over the ironing board to switch the cooker on again. The dishwasher is making an odd sound behind me, and I’m beginning to worry that I might have used too much detergent; and did it rally mean washing up liquid or did it mean the usual dishwasher tablet. I’m beginning to worry.

The bedding I’m ironing is not losing its creases and I realise I haven’t switched the iron back on again. I go into the next room and find the radio is off so I miss the next few words of the programme I’m trying to listen to and I switch that radio station back on.

And all this disruption has been caused by a stupid computer randomly dialling up my phone.

I curse all call centres and then take armfuls of ironed bedding upstairs and begin the exciting task of stuffing a duvet back into its cover.

There is a universal law that states whenever your house is in total disarray someone always knocks on your door.

I’m delighted as I’m expecting a parcel. This is why I’m inside doing all these jobs so that I don’t miss this knock. I scramble over the duvet and bound downstairs.

It’s not the parcel. Instead its my friend. I’m delighted to see her.

She comes inside and I rush upstairs to turn off the radio upstairs. As she comes into the front room I switch off the radio in the corner and then I switch off the radio in the kitchen.

I switch off the soup…she’s not tempted (see post below).

And then I finish ironing the St George flag. The one that hung from the upstairs window for the royal wedding and that’s been washed and dried.

My friend knows me well, and isn’t at all surprised to come upon me ironing a flag. It’s the last item. I fold it and put it away, then I tidy away the ironing board and we go outside to sit in the sunshine.

When we have set the world to rights we eventually return inside. Seeping from beneath the dishwasher is a mass of growing bubbles.

I grab a cloth and place it at the bottom of the machine, and we continue our chat in the living room while I have visions of bubbles taking over the whole kitchen.

Once my friend leaves I go back to look imagining the worst.

The dishwasher has finished its cycle. I gingerly open the door. It is full of small bubbles. I grab a handful and then blow them into the garden and they are caught by the wind and spiral away: a thing of beauty and mystery.

I then re-read the dishwasher instruction book and decide to have a go at cleaning the holes on the arms.

I am horrified by the gunge inside the top arm. There are particles of food, black bits, and egg shells. The holes prove trickier to clean out than I imagined, and at each end of the arm tiny particles of egg shells refuse to exit through their respective holes.

I try using an unravelled paper clip, tweezers, a pin and then a needle. I cover the holes in the arm as if it is a flute and play tap water through, it hoping that this will clear the holes.

It doesn’t.

I then take the arm up into the bath room and try the bath tap hoping that this stronger jet of water will do the trick.

It doesn’t

My sleeves are wet, my socks are wet. I change jumpers and socks and try again with the needle and eventually I have cleaned out the holes.

It is now the turn of the lower arm. This one thankfully was easier.

By this time the bubbles have all melted away and to my horror I discover that there is a puddle of disgusting looking dirty water at the bottom of the dishwasher. Horrified to find this again, I study the manual. It described how you can unfasten a screw and reach and then clean out the next section near the pump.

I decide to give it a go.

There is a universal law that states whenever there is a screw to unfasten it is bound to have the wrong kind of head.

From the diagram in the manual it looked liked a Phillips screw, so I got my Phillips screw driver.

It didn’t work.

I tried a smaller screwdriver.

It didn’t work.

I then crawled almost inside the machine so I could peer more closely at the screw head.

It was shaped like a hexagon.

I got out my bits and pieces jar and tipped it out hoping to find an Allen key.

It’s now like an episode from Goldilocks and the Three Bears. The first Allen key is far too big, the second one is too big, and the third… I search through a heap of drawing pins, nails, screws and roll plugs… there isn’t a third!

In the living room I get a chair and reach for a toolkit on the top shelf. Joy of joys when I open it I discover it has three small Allen keys.

It’s again like Goldilocks and the Three Bears... except in my case it’s more like Greyilocks and the Three Bears! The first Allen key is far too big, the second one is too big and the third thankfully is just right.

I twist it and release the screw.

I find more disgusting gunge. I clean it all up. Then I scrape away lime scale deposits, and clean and clean and clean until this section gleams.

It takes an age to refit the plastic part and to get the screw to turn once more.

It takes a further age to refit the lower arm.

It takes forever to refit the filters and to replace the bottom shelf.

But eventually it is complete. I tidy up and switch it on.

It works… the plates are gleaning.

I’ve fixed the dishwasher!

Yeah!

It’s time for soup (see below) which of course by now is long cold.

I’m tempted to celebrate by hanging out the flag once more… but when I look outside it is already dark.