Cookers. Just Don’t

I’ve had one of those weeks really. The best part of it has been taken up with the melodrama of my mother’s cooker… her old one was quite an elderly beast, nearing the end of its natural lifespan. However, the crisis came somewhat sooner than expected when it began tripping the main fuse in my mother’s house whenever she switched the oven on.

She looked at me accusingly…

“What? I didn’t do it!”

“Don’t be stupid, Samantha, I want to know what did!”

She was obviously assuming that I had somehow acquired a degree in Electrical Engineering from somewhere… by process of careful elimination, though, I was able to ascertain that it was definitely the cooker that was tripping the fuse, and nothing else, like the washing machine, for example, or a blown lightbulb.

My mother pooh-poohed my tentative diagnosis, so the council was called to check the house wiring. The electrician that arrived confirmed my suspicions that in fact an element in the oven had blown which was causing the rest of the electric to switch off via the circuit breaker for safety reasons (oh yeah I know what I’m talking about!) and that my mother would have to buy a new cooker. My heart sank.

Buying white goods with my mother has its own particular set of pleasures since she hails from the school of thought that you should be able to get the all-singing all-dancing latest model and still have change left from a hundred quid. Ha.

Having ascertained that there was no possible way my mother could cram an Aga into the space in her kitchen designed for a reasonable sized electric cooker, we managed to select a suitable model for a reasonable price from a certain shop who shall remain nameless (think of a Greek hero looking for a golden fleece and you’re halfway there…)

Delivery was arranged for as soon as possible, which happened to be ten days away but Mother has a microwave and we would be able to manage..( “Couldn’t you get them to bring it sooner, Samantha..?” HOW? When they have to bring it straight from the warehouse and don’t happen to have one already knocking about under the desk…)

The great day arrived… as did the cooker. Faulty. I’m not joking. Aside from anything else, it was just a fraction too wide to fit in the allotted space, so we had to remove the fitted cupboard. But once in situ, the oven made a noise like a particularly bad-tempered tank and yes – you guessed it – blew the electric.

I was a little annoyed, but putting my newly acquired and completely hypothetical electrical knowledge to the test, I was able to deduce that it was in fact a faulty oven, rather than a problem with the actual wiring of the house. I duly made the ‘phone call to arrange a replacement product for the following day. (Why? Why did she have to wait ten days for the first one and yet they could arrange another one for the next day..? Hmm..)

The next day came. According to my mother, the delivery men were a lot more careful the second time, even taking the outer packaging off for her. Once again, we gathered, the court assembled, waiting for its king… the cupboard had been fully removed, the floor cleaned, the relevant wires connected up and the cooker just needed to be pushed gently into position…

My mother leant forward and tenderly removed an errant piece of cellotape from the front of the gleaming appliance… and… the door fell off. Seriously. I couldn’t make it up if I TRIED.

“Samantha!”

“What?! I didn’t do it!!”

And now we are waiting… for another replacement… another delivery. Me? Oh…I’m hiding. My phone’s switched off…shhh….

Yes. I know. The pictures have absolutely no relevance to the text… Just made me feel better to look t something pretty…