We’ve all been privy to at least one appliance repair disaster story – but not many can top this one! If you’re in the mood for a bit of a giggle, read on.
This story starts in a pretty typical way. My second-hand washing machine – bought off eBay just three months prior – decides to give one last heave before dropping its guts all over the laundry floor. Water absolutely everywhere.
A dodgy washing machine? There is nothing so unusual about that – most people have to deal with a broken appliance at least every couple of years. So I do what millions before me have done: I call a washing machine repair guy. That’s where this story starts to get interesting.
Rather than paying the $70 pick-up fee (a pretty standard cost), I decide I’m capable of getting my 7.5kg top-loader there myself; after all, it’s just up the road. I borrow a trolley from work, strap my washing machine in and bounce it down two flights of stairs. So far, so good.
Halfway there, 1 of the wheels decides to give out, and my washing machine catapults to one side. I grab it just before it hits the ground and somehow manage to manoeuvre it back on the trolley. Close one.
I continue down the road, trying to ignore the “nails on a chalkboard” sound of metal sliding across the asphalt of the road as my now 1-wheeled trolley makes a not-so-silent protest about its inhumane treatment. Nearly there. I look up and see the washing machine repair guy standing outside the front of his shop to greet me. I try to convince myself he’s just being super friendly and that it’s got nothing to do with the awful racket.
Red-faced and out of breath, I let the washing machine repair guy know what’s wrong with the machine – “it’s stuffed” – and he tells me he’ll take a look and get back to me. I walk back to my house, cradling the trolley, momentarily proud that I’ve got my washing machine there in one piece (sorry, trolley) and saved myself 70 bucks.
That feeling doesn’t last long. The next day, I received a call from the washing machine repair guy letting me know that he’d fixed my machine and asked if I would like him to drop it back for me, cheekily adding that it would be free of charge. Of course, I eagerly agree. Half an hour later, there’s a knock at the door. The repairman wheels my washing machine up the stairs (thankfully, the machine’s re-entry is a lot more graceful than its exit).
“There was a problem with the pump,” he starts, clearing his throat loudly before continuing, “there was um..something…ah stuck.” Now, I don’t know much about washing machines (which is why I sought out expert help in the first place), but it sounds like a pretty common diagnosis – so why the excessive amount of umming and ahhing for such a routine fix-it job?
The repairman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out my invoice. “I spent a few hours trying to retrieve the…ahh…item,” he explains, trying to justify the hefty sum. He hesitates slightly before plunging his hand back into his pocket and resurfacing with a sodden ball of black lace. “And here’s the offender – I thought you might be missing it,” he says as he slaps it into my free hand.
My palms begin to sweat, and splotches of heat start to make their way up my neck as I glance down and realise I’m clutching a black lacy g-string – the “I could be mistaken for dental floss” kind.
Before I can be humiliated any further (if that’s even possible), I’m pushing the washing machine repair guy out the door, promising to drop by later to pay him. “No worries,“ he replies as he leaves, punctuating his final words with a wink. Gross.
Now that I’m alone, I pluck up the courage to inspect the g-string properly, selecting a pair of tongs to poke and prod the crumpled ball until it unravels. Observing the underwear (and I use this term very loosely) in all its glory, I’m suddenly very happy with my BBQ tong barrier. My suspicions have been confirmed. These panties aren’t mine.
I steal a quick moment to revel in my fine detective work before the reality – and severity – of the situation hits. For the last three months, I have been washing my clothes in water tainted by a foreign g-string – somebody else’s g-string.
“After three months of heavy wash cycles, at least you know it’s clean,” a friend helpfully points out. Still, in my mind, there’s no coming back from this incident – my washing machine is cursed.
Needless to say, a few days later, I rushed out and purchased a sparkling new front loader and placed my second-hand – but now perfectly functioning – washing machine back on eBay.
Let’s just hope I haven’t passed on any nasty surprises to its new owners!
