I had a kerfuffle with an appliance this week.
It was my intention for this entry to recount my tour of Buckingham Palace this September, and also to go to St. Paul’s Cathedral for next week’s blog. But these things have to wait another couple of days and I will now explain why.
Here are the facts leading up to the rumpus as best as I can recall them:
1.) I did open an umbrella in the apartment. It’s a little temperamental, the umbrella, and I was going out in the rain; I wanted to make sure it was working properly.
2.) I walked under two ladders when I accidentally wandered through a construction zone. (I’m sure you can relate.)
3.) One of the workers at said construction zone yelled something inappropriate in Romanian in my general direction (I’m surmising it was inappropriate because he said it in Romanian.) It might have been a curse. Or, maybe he was just saying “Hey, that woodenheaded blonde girl just walked past all of this dangerous machinery and then under two ladders. Maybe we should call someone.”
4.) I dropped my cell phone and said the f-word in front of a rabbi at Tesco.
5.) Still blushing from shame, I then walked back under the same two ladders and through the same construction zone, where the same guy again contributed whatever it was he felt the need to contribute in Romanian. (Don’t you judge me, it was the fastest way back to my flat.)
Now the rumpus:
I had left the washing machine on when I was out on my errand, and when I came back inside, I slipped and fell on my…posterior. My head hit the floor, but not hard. Still, as I lay there, momentarily dazed but acutely aware that the floor was soaked, for the shortest of moments, I considered the possibility that this was a pool of my own blood and I was about to die. I lifted my hand in front of my face and discovered it was not covered in blood, but sudsy water.
![Havoc!](https://londoncannon.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/the-culprit1.jpg?w=300&h=225)
The last bucket of flood water & tears, the ladder I flew up to shut off the electricity and of course, the culprit looming in the background. (You can see where the box next to it took on water.)
I said the phrase “Oh my God” at least eight times as I stood, looked around, and saw that the hallway, the reception, my bedroom, and probably the bathroom (couldn’t tell for sure because that door was closed) were covered in water which was pouring out of my washer/dryer. (In Britain, washers and dryers are often the same machine, to conserve space. It’s a pretty good idea, you know, combining an electric dryer with the same machine that swishes gallons and gallons of water around. Coming soon: the bathtub/toaster!) Anyway, because my electricity sometimes goes out, I’m fairly adept when it comes to whipping out the ladder, climbing it, and making it up to the power box. This time, I practically flew.
With the electricity safely shut off, the washer stopped turning my apartment into a swamp, and I was able to proceed to frantically call my lettings manager and run to find a towel to begin what would be a four hour clean-up.
But of course, I couldn’t find a towel, because they were all in the washer. I was washing all of my towels. So instead, I used a washcloth and a bucket. I did strategize a little; I started along the bases of the walls to try to prevent the water from leaking down them to the distiller/restaurant below me, I flipped all of the chairs over onto the tables, and I made sure nothing valuable was on the floor. Other than that, though, the only thing to do was dunk the washcloth at a random spot on the floor and wring it out into the bucket as fast as possible, and then dump the bucket out in the sink whenever it became too full. It was like a relay race. A hellish, lonely relay race.
After the bulk of the water had been cleaned up, I used three rolls of paper towels to dry the remainder. Then I collapsed onto the couch, called my dad, and cried.
The lettings manager had a plumber come first. The plumber was, ironically, Romanian. He said there was nothing wrong with the water supply itself, which was a good thing. The next day, which was Friday, an appliance guy came (not Romanian), and he said a couple parts needed to be replaced. He referred to it as a “time bomb.” I emailed the lettings manager to let her know the situation, and didn’t hear back by the end of the day, as expected. I’m hoping it can be fixed at some point next week, but the good news is, miraculously, NOTHING was destroyed or damaged beyond repair, except a couple of boxes I had on the floor that were holding a few of my books, which are wet, obviously, but readable. And no complaints from the restaurant, which I’m taking to mean there was no damage incurred down there, either. Thank God. And that clean-up was one heck of a workout. So that’s nice.
I wasn’t able to visit St. Paul’s because the past couple days have been spent waiting for the plumber and appliance repairman to arrive and take a look. Also, I have to have a piece ready to workshop for Monday, and I’m nowhere near ready, so the rest of my evening and the whole day tomorrow will be dedicated to changing that. But I will, eventually, see that cathedral. And I will not be walking under any ladders or swearing at religious higher-ups in the meantime.
Soggily yours,
AC