So this is how you treat me. You pack up and go away
And leave me here alone while you head off on holiday.
No postcard. Not a word. Then you roll in, relaxed and tanned –
And suddenly it’s down to me to drive the salt and sand
From swimsuits, beach towels, t-shirts, shorts and other stuff you wore.
A multi-hued tsunami that engulfs the kitchen floor.
I started work at five o’clock the morning you returned:
For three days straight, without a break, my mechanism churned.
I’d wash and rinse and spin, then yet another load would come;
A never-ending cycle. But you never beat my drum.
For though I’m gentle on your woollens, delicate I’m not:
I’m German engineering at its finest, and I’ve got
Die Kraft to work my way through tonnes of Unterwäsche, Hosen –
For your schmutzige Kleidung I’m the best you could have chosen.
I serve in silence, seek no thanks, and ask for nothing more
Than that you unblock my filters, scoop the gunk out of my drawer
And run me through my de-fluff programme every now and then.
So when you come back next year, I can do it all again.
Our long-serving, long-suffering washing machine has run almost continuously since we returned from holiday, calmly tackling three weeks’ worth of laundry without missing a beat. This ridiculous poem is both a tribute to the folks at Bosch, and a humble gift for my dear friend Christine. N.