Broken washing machines are GOOD

This wasn’t, of course, my first thought on the matter as the lights went out on the panel and the recently-inserted clothes flopped from the top of the drum down into a stew of brown soapy water and their own juices.


If the washing machine had not been broken I would not have gone round to my friend’s to run through an emergency load.

If I had not gone to my friend’s she would not have remembered I was leaving for New York the following morning, early. (Yes, tomorrow.)

She would not have thought about the invitation to her friend’s exhibition opening, in New York, which had arrived in the post that morning and was now sitting on her mantelpiece.

She would not have put two and two together and made a swanky evening out at a gallery “do” on Fifth Avenue for me. Daaaahling.

On the other hand this means I have to pack something smart to wear. Damn!

(Meanwhile Marlon has worked his magic and by a laying on of hands, and not much more, the lights are on and the washing is home.)

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