He didn’t say it again on the weekend but he was probably thinking it — and if he wasn’t, he should have been. It was the weekend of doom, and most stressful for me.
It was up there with the time the river pump came loose in the flood and buried itself in the mud, and there was no way to get at it for weeks.
Or when a rat managed to get stuck in the air conditioner and died there.
And I won’t mention the brain fade when he reversed out of the garage and into a visitor’s car, despite the loud warning beeps ringing in his ears — and the rear view camera showing another car closing in! Where was he, I wanted to ask — but I knew I wouldn’t get a straight answer.
Then he did the same thing a couple of years later. Same warning beeps, same view in the camera — just a different visitor.
At least he wasn’t the cause of the latest unravelling. Not directly, anyway.
It started Thursday night, about the time his Tigers finished being towelled by the previously hapless Demons. The fridge started making an unnerving rattle.
No-one paid much attention because it occasionally does that. It’s one of those models with an ice-maker; funny noises seem to go with the territory.
Occasionally, the compressor roars into life loudly enough to disturb my sleep but we’ve put up with it for so long New Boy and I paid little attention to it.
The Boss just opened the door and pressed a few switches on and off and the rattle stopped.
But soon it started again.
By morning there was water lying on the floor. Being Anzac Day, there were things to do so the Missus mopped it up and The Boss pressed some more switches and headed out.
You can see where this is going, and it did. The rattling became more frequent and louder by the evening but there was no more leaking — except until there was. The fridge seemed to enjoy leaking most overnight; by Sunday morning it had crept across the kitchen floor like a slow tide.
The Boss announced they needed a fridge mechanic but the Missus reminded him how old it was and besides, the rattling soon became less of an occasional outburst than a death rattle. With much groaning he pulled the fridge out from its cavity, which is always an interesting move for the dogs to see what’s behind it, but never for the humans. Enough said.
By Sunday afternoon everything had been moved from the ailing fridge and rudely thrust into my fridge — the dog fridge, which I prefer to see bulging with bones. The excess went into the freezer out the back.
Then it was a quick run into Harvey Norman to see if Marty Richardson was there — and he was, much to their relief. Marty is an old mate, a former chef who knows about kitchen stuff and whitegoods — and barracks for the Cats like the Missus does, so they talked footy and fridges for a while and The Boss walked out shaking his head with a much lighter wallet.
They were home in time to see the second half of the game but the Cats lost, so no-one was happy and New Boy and I stayed right out of the way. Which is hard when The Boss is constantly ducking out to my fridge for the milk and the butter, while we wait for the new one to turn up. Woof!
19°C