The Undomestic Goddess

But I’m not going to. And I haven’t got time to think about her. I have laundry to do.

It takes me two trips to bring down all the washing to the laundry room, just off the kitchen. I dump the overflowing baskets on the tiled floor and look at the hi-tech washing machine. This should be simple enough. Experimentally, I open the door of the machine and at once an electronic display starts flashing at me. WASH? WASH?

Immediately I feel flustered. Obviously I want you to wash, I feel like snapping back. Just give me a chance to get the bloody clothes in.

Stay calm. One thing at a time. First step: sort the clothes. Feeling pleased with myself for having thought of this, I start sorting out the dirty clothes into piles on the floor, consulting the labels as I go. As I’m peering at one marked Wash with GREAT CARE, I hear Trish coming into the kitchen, clearly on the phone.

“You’re right,” she’s saying, her voice trembling. “You’re right! But he doesn’t see it like that! And let me tell you, I’ve tried!”

I freeze in embarrassment. Does Trish know I’m in here? Should I cough?

“I don’t want to play golf! Is there nothing else we can do together?” I glance out of the laundry door into the kitchen and to my horror see Trish at the table, dabbing at her eyes with a pink tissue. “It’s all right for him! He has no idea what it’s like for me!”

Hastily I duck back into the laundry and start busily shoving clothes into the drum at random. If Trish comes in, she’ll see me dutifully at work, impervious to her conversation. I shake some washing powder into the little tray at the top and close the door firmly. Now what?

WASH? the machine is still flashing at me. WASH?

“Er … yes!” I mutter. “Wash them.” I jab randomly at a button.

ENTER PROGRAM? it flashes back.

My eyes dart about for clues, and I spot a manual tucked behind a spray bottle. I grab it and start leafing through.

The half-load option for small washes is only available for prewash programs A3-E2 and superrinse programs G2-L7 not including H4.

… What?

OK, let’s forget the manual. Let’s just use common sense. I briskly press at the keypad in my best housekeeper manner.

PROGRAM K3? the machine flashes at me. PROGRAM K3?

I don’t like the sound of program K3. It sounds sinister. Like a cliff face or secret government plot.

“No,” I say aloud, jabbing at the machine. “I want something else.”

YOU HAVE CHOSEN K3, it flashes back. HEAVY-DUTY UPHOLSTERY PROGRAM.

Heavy duty? Upholstery?

“Stop it,” I say under my breath, and start banging all the buttons. “Stop!” I kick the machine in desperation. “Stop!”

“Everything all right, Samantha?” Trish appears at the laundry door. All signs of tears are gone and she’s applied fresh lipstick. I wonder what she was so upset about. But it’s hardly my place to ask.

“Er … fine! Just … getting some washing on.”

“Well done.” She holds out a stripy shirt to me. “Now, Mr. Geiger needs a button sewn on this shirt, if you would be so kind.”

“Absolutely!” I take it from her, praying my trepidation doesn’t show on my face.

“And here’s your list of duties!” She hands me a sheet of paper. “It’s by no means complete, but it should get you started.”

As I run my eyes down the endless list, I feel a bit faint.

Make beds … sweep and clean front steps … arrange flowers … polish all mirrors … store cupboards tidy … laundry … clean bathrooms daily …

“Now, there’s nothing here that should present you with a problem, is there?” adds Trish.

“Er … no!” My voice is a little strangled. “No, it should all be fine!”

“But make a stab at the ironing first,” she continues firmly. “There is quite a lot, I’m afraid, as you’ll have seen. It does tend to mount up rather …” For some reason, Trish is looking upward. With a slight foreboding, I follow her gaze. There, above us, is a mountain of crumpled shirts hanging on a wooden drying rack. At least thirty.

As I stare up at them, I feel wobbly. I can’t iron a shirt. I’ve never used an iron in my life. What am I going to do?

“I expect you’ll whip through these in no time!” she says gaily. “The ironing board’s just there,” she adds with a nod.

“Um, thanks!” I manage.

I reach for the ironing board, trying to look matter-of-fact, as if I do this all the time. I tug briskly at one of the metal legs, but it won’t move. I try another one with no luck. I’m pulling harder and harder, till I’m hot with the effort, but the bloody thing won’t budge. How am I supposed to open it up?