The Seven Year Itch

First it’s the car, now it’s the dishwasher.  This has been a seven year problem in the making, relating to the fact that when we moved to Sydney we embarked on that ritual beloved of all international movers, the kitting out of the new house and based on our moves around the globe there are a number of mundane household things you can guarantee without fail. 

Firstly, whatever curtains and blinds with which you may have kitted out your last house, they won’t fit in the new house, or if by some miracle they do fit a window you can be sure that the Winnie-the Pooh curtains that graced the nursery in Hong Kong are going to only add to an unfavourable first impression on the neighbours in Sydney if you stick them up in the sitting room – though what am I talking about no one does proper curtains in Sydney- it’s all shutters no, dear – so the dancing Winnies might as well be relegated to the back of the spare room wardrobe along with the Thanksgiving decorations you can’t bear to throw out.

Second rule of domestic disharmony is that whatever electrical appliances you have they are going to be too large, too small, or just won’t work in new country without the attachment of bulky convertors or in extremis, your own personal generator.

As a result of the second rule, when we arrived in Sydney seven years ago we embarked upon a spending spree – hardly the joyous occasion those word imply, as we were after all equipping ourselves with car, fridge, dishwasher and washing machine rather than shoes, jewels and glorious fripperies.

And lo and behold it now becomes clear the seven year itch is less of social disease involving males of fickle nature and more of a rampaging epidemic affecting household goods and chattels. The car was the first to succumb and now requires a surgical lightness of touch on the ignition key to achieve lift off,  involving turning key forward and then very, very gently moving it fractionally back – impatience on this front has led to some spectacular stalls/dead halts in the midst of traffic.  The dishwasher acting in sympathy has thrown German efficiency out with the dishwater as it were and is now flashing error codes that even the maker professes not to have heard of (surely not).  I feel like lining up the fridge and washing machine and demanding “Who’s next to go?  Hands up” – would include Husband in line up but feel that might be a dangerous manoeuvre.

An outing last night to the Outdoor Cinema at the Botanics to see ‘The Sweeney’, was just the antidote needed to all the domestic drama.  In an effort to prod me into producing a best seller, the man’s got to dream after all, Husband once pointed out what he felt was a winning formula – car chase, sex and a gun all within first 5 pages or 5 minutes if we are talking film – and have to say based on this criteria ‘The Sweeney’ was a winner being an action packed, clasp edge of seat, or if you are me, peer at screen through small gap between fingers, type movie.  Bet none of those glamorous female detectives would take any nonsense from their appliances – on which note I’m off to deliver a good white- goods- kicking before the ritual measuring of hole and expensive trudge round the shops.