Everyone’s talking shite. I’m just breathing it in.

Sunday — the washer starts leaking.
The family convenes an emergency summit at the big table. Consensus: we need a professional.

Anita F. Kite, the wife, calls a company on Monday following a neighbour’s recommendation. We should have aborted at this point. She had suspicions after speaking to the support person — sounded like she was reading a script from the 1980s. Hindsight — that smug bastard — always shows up late.

Anyway, we were told it would be Thursday. So after a quick count of the Calvin Kleins, spanks, knickers, and superhero pants — all delegates at the summit announce quorum and agree we will just make it.

Thursday comes. They don’t show. They don’t call.

After contemplating whether I could learn enough from YouTube to fix it myself, we discover the WhatsApp feature on their site and connect to the plumber directly.
“It will be tomorrow — Friday — sorry about this. It’s a new girl on the phones; she’s caused a few issues on bookings. Don’t worry, it’ll be Friday morning.”

Friday comes. Nothing. Again.
And another day of me staring at the ceiling, contemplating the cosmos, or maybe just the washing machine.

At 6 p.m., the wife texts them: “I assume you will not be coming?”
7 p.m… 8 p.m… The wife goes full Mission Impossible. Laundrette, here I come. I’ll do that tomorrow. I found another plumber. I’ll call them — what a woman!

Then, as if they knew she was plotting, they text at 9 p.m.:
“Sorry, a couple of emergencies landed. It’ll be tomorrow, Saturday, between 10 and 2.”

Saturday arrives. Needless to say — no show. Texts unanswered.
At exactly 2:02 p.m., the wife launches the covert op. Laundrette: Go. Go. Go.

After returning from the laundrette (where I was assured there was no Levi man — thankfully) and getting dinner ready, he turns up.

Talks nonsense about needing electrical tests before diagnosing it. Already sounded expensive.
Then he tells us some booster spring and tube are eroded. He interrogates us like he’s auditioning for Law & Order: has any other work been done? Never seen this in all his years.

Now, the lad is 25 at a push — sounding like old Tam the plumber is… weir…. and had a feel of an interrogation conducted by Frank Drebin in The Naked Gun: Fron the File of Police Squad.

We don’t tell him, but the wife is a dab hand at plumbing. She fitted this machine herself four years ago. So we say no, while trying not to laugh at this premature pensioner. 

He says it’ll need parts ordered and will cost £179.57. Pay now, and they’ll order Monday; he’ll be back to fix it.

It’s now feeding time at the zoo and the kids are running around like they’re on amphetamines, so I do the only thing I manage in the whole episode — hand over £179.57. Such is the need to get the washer back and to stop the risk of the wife discovering the Levi man at the laundrette.

Only later, staring at that damned saucepan trying to make a cup of tea, did I think: Should we have done that? Did the wife check Trustpilot?
Nah. It’ll be alright. They came recommended by a neighbour. We’ll be grand.

By now you know where this is going. Day 7 of trying to reach them, and it’s clear the new hire has either fallen into a washing machine or been sacked. No answer. WhatsApp isn’t showing any blue ticks.

So here I am, pondering what my next move is with these cowboys but, in the back off my mind I’m more worried about whether the wife’s coming home from the laundrette with our skants — or if she’s finally found and done a runner with the Levi man.

– Tom Kite.