Breaking Down

Apparently, problems come in threes.

I’m sure it’s not news to you to discover this as we are all well aware that, following hot on the heels of a precariously perched glass tumbling to its doom, decorating the kitchen floor in a glorious array of glittering shards, and a blown fuse casting a shadow over the once well-lit cooker, it is only right that we cower under the sheets too afraid to step outside the door in case the ceiling might come crashing down, crushing us under the merciless weight of years of neglected maintenance. And so, faced with the inevitability of a third disaster, all we can do is sit and wait and pray that we might be graciously spared the ceiling fate for another day and might instead succumb to a scratched DVD, the Sky+ recording failing or the stubbing of our favourite toe.

There’s one problem with this problem theory though: what if you speed beyond a mere three and find yourself onto at least problem 7? Do problems work in multiples of 3 and so therefore problems 8 and 9 are waiting for their moment to shine, or is 7 the new 3 and this will, in fact, be our defining glory, the proof that we are well on our way to being on a par with Job when it comes to persevering through suffering?

Masquerading as a limp-wristed washer-upper, our dishwasher is currently seeking to rebrand itself as a ‘dishdampener’, offering a token spray when faced with stains demanding so much more. I have even rearranged the items to create more space, tactical genius that I am, offering the water an easier pathway in an attempt to counter its apathetic activity. Unfortunately, as problem number 7, the dishwasher is quite happy to bide its time, to mock my pulling and prodding and take a well-deserved holiday after months of heavy labour. It is, quite simply, revelling in its role as the seventh problem to plague us in recent months…

It all began with loft-door suicide. Take yourself back to Christmas, a time of joy and celebration, togetherness and unity. Not for the loft-door. For the loft-door, this was the time to go, the time to start a whole new life without any attachments. Shearing itself from the hinges, the divorce announced its arrival with a cat-killing clatter – fortunately, no cats were around to be killed – as we sat at the foot of the stairs, naively thinking that no doors would be dying today.

The computer was soon to follow, laying down the ghost after getting a little overexcited at an unexpected power surge. And then, just when I was starting to plan my return to the monkey-bars, my shoulder decided it had grown tired of its secure location within the socket and opted to follow the loft-door in its aspiration for an alternative dwelling place. Twice.

All problems are painful but some are more painful than others.

And, while we’re on the subject of pain, does anyone know how you’re supposed to get candle wax off a carpet? Apparently, the answer is not to try and soak it up with an iron, repeatedly returning to the patch insisting that that just one more press would do it. Until I came up with the ingenious plan of ‘redecorating’ by moving the rug into place, the unsightly patch of burned carpet brought deep emotional pain to my previously-house-proud wife.

I’m going to be blog-proud for a few moments and stop before I do anything to burn a hole in the currently-untainted fabric. Stay tuned for problems 8 and 9, coming to a screen near you…