The Landlady: All washed up
For the past seven years, I have been lucky enough to possess a dishwasher. Well, not the same dishwasher in that whole period obviously, because they are built to last only about two years before they go horribly wrong, flood the kitchen and cost an entire month’s salary to repair. That is, of course, if the solid gold-plated part (possibly encrusted with the finest diamonds and emeralds) is available in Europe at that particular moment, which it never is.
“My children might not have A-levels, or be bilingual, but they know how to wash up”
Strangely enough, I seem to go through dishwashers at roughly the same rate as I go through husbands, boyfriends, etc. Stranger still, both current Boyfriend and dishwasher have withstood the most erratic period of my life so far with few complaints. The current dishwasher makes very strange noises – something like a cement-mixer with jellybeans inside it – but still manages to complete a cycle without flooding the kitchen, or filling it with smoke. This is in spite of the fact that, for the entire past year it has been used by people who were incapable of emptying the kitchen bin, or flushing a toilet. I suspect that they were using it to clean only two mugs at a time and therefore, the dishwasher enjoyed something of a holiday during their occupancy.
I currently have two temporary lodgers, who are leaving next week. They are both 18-year-old boys, thoroughly charming and bilingual, but seemingly incapable of either using the dishwasher or washing dishes in the traditional manner to a satisfactory level. If they do actually manage to wash any cups or glasses, they leave them to drain the ‘right’ way up, so that the water still sits in them. My children might not have A-levels, or be bilingual (or even be capable of speaking proper English) but they know how to wash up.
It’s no wonder The Boyfriend can’t even look in my fridge without almost having a seizure. He is permanently on a kind of Nazi cuisine duty. As a chef who works at least 16 hours per day, one would imagine that he’d be sick of the sight of food on his days off. One would be entirely wrong. Last week, he had three days off. On the first day, he made a game pie with root vegetable mash. This was in spite of the fact that, the night before, he and I had drunk ridiculous amounts of alcohol and as a result failed to get up until 3pm.
On the second day, I popped round on my way back from yoga, to discover him gleefully hacking three baby chickens to pieces. Breasts and legs were being carefully assigned to separate Tupperware containers, while the precious carcasses had their own special container for stockmaking purposes. Meanwhile, his flatmate – also a chef – lay on the sofa in disbelief, unwilling to have anything to do with food on his day off. On the third day, I had to go to Hastings to get mine and Katy’s flat valued. The Boyfriend phoned at around 4pm – but not to see how, or indeed where I was – but to find out whether I’d washed his chef’s whites. I could hear something spluttering away in the background. It was confit duck, which was to be eaten before he went to play football at Waterhall.
I’m sure most 5-a-side teams aren’t nearly as posh. Which is probably why they always win…
