My American Dream, which includes the La-Z-Boy, my politics lurching to the right, and my impending obesity, was further enhanced when we moved into our new flat. The place included in-kitchen-sink disposal! Drop your vegetable peelings, tea bags, and other sundry items down the plughole, flick the switch, and with a dramatic growl they are chewed, eaten, and transported from the kitchen (and into the water table? I prefer not to think about that part).
Coming from a less automated country, we've been very careful about what exactly goes down there. I think Elliot once used his to get rid of a mouse. We're a little more humane, making sure that only the smallest and most machine-edible things disappear into the blackness. It works very nicely.
Imagine our disappointed surprise when the thing (all 2 1/2 horse power of it, according to a label on the plumbing) started buzzing in a distressing manner with no chew action whatsoever. I switched it off immediately. Hannah, who always believes in pushing through any problem, was not so gentle and just let the thing run until silence fell. Hmmm.
"There's something down here," Hannah said, shoving her hand into the hole. I was reminded of several horror movies involving evil appliances turning on at the most blood-thirsty moments. She agreed to use some salad tongs instead, and with a little pulling we managed to extract...a pair of black Marks and Spencer's knickers.
Now this is a quality item! I once read that 70% of British ex-pats get cotton undies shipped to them from M&S, and their longevity is legendary. I had some that my Mum bought me when I went to uni that lasted 13 years. They might still be in storage box in a garage in Durham, actually.
This pair, however, belonged to neither of us, and their semi-chewed, vegetable-covered state meant they could not be salvaged. But how could they have got there? What was a premium piece of British underwear doing so far from home? Was it a message? One can only assume that they were lost, unnoticed, in an unfortunate hand-washing incident. Not pointing any fingers.
Blockage removed, the InSinkErator ("grind almost anything") was not inclined to magically fix itself and so I will shortly be reporting it to the apartment managers, wearing my best innocent face and feigning complete bemusement, "deploying the accent" as ex-pat, cotton-wearing (?) James claims is the best way to get out of trouble. It's impressive that waste disposal vs. English lingerie = lingerie wins! Maybe M&S could use this as a marketing campaign. I'm just glad we discovered the cause before the maintenance man arrived. "I think I've found the problem Mr Davies..."
