A few nights ago, my microwave said Tssssphfft! very loudly, and blew its brain. How rude!
These things are supposed to go on working forever, doing their bit at the press of the buttons I’m used to pressing, while I think about God, the universe and how to save the world. They’re not entertaining. They’re not multi-tasking supergizmos that hop off their perch at night and clean the kitchen while I sleep. In fact the model in question didn’t have much of a brain to blow, if I’m honest: a few measly pings, and that was it. But I also know myself well enough to realise that without it to warm the soup and cook the broccoli, I’d likely be dining on vitaweets and vegemite by the end of week, which wouldn’t be clever.
So I’ve just had the dubious pleasure of carrying a new microwave up four flights of stairs.
I say dubious advisedly. I’m pleased I can heat the soup again without the downer of washing a saucepan. I’m grateful I had the space on my credit card to buy it (although books would have been better). But I don’t want to skim through its manual, and I don’t want to acquaint myself with its buttons. And most of all, I’m depressed about the whole carry-it-up-the-stairs bit.
I’ve lived on my own for a long time. I’m used to doing my own heavy lifting, thanks very much, and I’d like to keep it that way. But that microwave was heavy, dammit, and it forced me to wonder how long I can keep it up. When does discretion become the better part of valour, however unappealing? Because going arse-over as I carry the old one down the stairs has no attraction at all.
And besides, it would be a terrible waste. The 60km round trip to buy the microwave had a bonus. I found some chicken sausages!