Washing Machine Time

I am living life somewhere between Real Time and Washing Machine Time.

Doing laundry here is a long process which involves a fair amount of human intervention. Not that I am complaining, too much. Pastoral depictions notwithstanding, I am much happier with my present arrangement than I might be with a sturdy rock next to an icy stream. And the industrial-sized washers and dryers here are much newer and more reliable than they were the last time we visited. These, however, cost $$ (or the British equivalent) and are located -- 1, 2, 3...4 flights of stairs below the apartment.

We do have a faculty-reserved alternative. It took me a week to find it with any reliability. It is located on a half-landing, a mere 3 flights below (none of these flights, however, are narrow spiral stone stairwells). The single washer and dryer offer an inviting alternative and require no money to be operated by mere mortals. They do, however, serve as a portal into another dimension.

Down the staircase, and next to a window seat, the nearly-hidden room opens into two small chambers. The washer dominates one space. Red numbers cheerfully add additional minutes to the duration of the wash cycle -- do I want my clothes clean, or merely bathed? Do I want my cottons shrunk or merely swished? Do I want extra rinsing? Perma-press enhancement (which seems to ADD indelible creases to the items washed)? -- all of these represent additional minutes of mechanical care. There is a dial which seems to do something to the spin cycle, in increments of 500s. 500 whats, I haven't determined.

But, do not forget, mere mortal, that you have entered the realm of Washing Machine Time. The cheerful LED which indicates 58 minutes, for instance, does not obey the conventional laws of modern time measurement. Returning 72 minutes later, one still finds a small 16 blinking on the display. Should you decide to stand and wait for the final "3" minutes, it will cost you 10 minutes of your mortal life.

The dryer operates a little more predictably. No matter how many minutes things are put in to dry, they come out damp. It is somewhat daunting to have the quickest setting require minutes in the vicinity of three digits. This part of the process alone, can take all day.

I have wondered whether life could be prolonged by living more of it in Washing Machine Time. Would an hour of my life-span really last for 97 minutes if it were lived in the hidden alcove of the laundry room? I suspect the truth might be that it would only seem as if my life were prolonged unnaturally, were I to remain there all day. I don't intend to find out.

Spud Duds

It was a lovely pub supper. Everything a pub should be. It was rainy outside, and we arrived (on foot) rather wet and cold. The fire was cheerful and the room was just the right size. Not cramped, but not spacious. Very comfortable, with benches and tables and stools tucked in around in all the corners and around the edges. The hosts were helpful and had a great sense of humor. The food was excellent. Everything tasted as if it knew where it had come from. The fish tasted like proper fish, without being fishy. The potatoes were clearly potatoes, and the other vegetables had a sturdy presence on the plate. The steak pie was clearly filled with large chunks of melt-in-your-mouth beef. The beer was good, the tea was hot, and the ice cream settled in around the small gaps left by the dinner. Mushy peas were declined, as was the "toffee lumpy bumpy", the "spotted dick", and the "lemon sponge." Maybe next time...In all, it was the quintessence of a British evening. As we left, the ringers were pulling on the bells in the village church tower (rounds and titums, Liz).

Baked potatoes here are called Jacket Potatoes. I wonder what it says about the culture that British potatoes wear jackets whereas American potatoes are found in their skins. It bespoke of a more formal attitude even about food. It comes to the table fully dressed.

Sunny, Except When it Isn't

British weather defies prediction. Actually, it is very predictable, which is precisely the problem. "Intermittent sun, mixed with periods of rain, sleet or snow," they will cheerfully say on BBC radio in the morning. Thank you very much. I'll take umbrella, wellies and a heavy coat. At some moment in the day, one or two of these items will be indispensable. Our Kansas City weatherman has a First Rule of Weather Forecasting: Look out the window. This advice proves much more reliable here than any newspaper or radio prognostication. And if you don't like the weather, wait a half hour, and it will be different. Weather reporting here is something like a newspaper horoscope column. Any and all entries could accurately describe most people most of the time. "Watch for surprising news from an unexpected source." "Friends will prove important today." Well, yes.

This also leads to endless possibilities for discussing weather here. The conversation changes throughout the day. In California, such discussions are pointless. "Beautiful day out today, huh?" Not much more can be said, or needs to. But here -- oh my! You can discuss the rain on the bus to town, the warmth of the sunshine whilst shopping in the market, and decry the snow falling on the road on the way back home. Walk through the village under blustery gray skies and talk about how "fresh" the day is with the elderly dog walkers through the grounds. During the brightening evening, a glimpse of blue sky might be spotted between the white clouds of evening. All of this, mind you, between dinner and supper on a single day.

In the states, when we resort to talking about the weather, we imply that we are talking about nothing at all. Not so here. It is a conversation which renews itself over and over every day. And heaven help you if you must plan in the morning for the day ahead. Just take it all. You'll need it.

Microwave, and Life

The microwave in our flat is an exercise in caution and faith.

The display has ceased to function properly. All the LED numbers and words have certain portions of them missing. Only about 15 percent of the display's vertical and horizontal bits ever show. Not enough to reveal complete numbers or words. It does light up and seem to be trying to tell me something. If I remember what I request, and if I count carefully, I can imagine the sequence of descending numerals which might be suggested by the intermittent appearance of the few lines visible.

I have, however, managed to pop popcorn and even to bake brownies with the convection feature of the oven. The ability to bake feels somehow very civilizing. Makes me feel less of a nomad in this strange land. But the process of baking involves studying the manual very carefully and remembering precisely how many times I press which buttons in order to Preheat and Bake. Press the (C) button once for 190, twice for 180, thrice for 170, and so forth. Of course, the results are never visible on the display. So careful counting is essential. The same for entering the time to cook. No on-screen menu to follow, no countdown to guide me, or any status indicators to prompt each step in the process. Only the manual and my memory.

Use the manual. Follow the directions as described. Cautiously execute each step in the process, without any feedback. And hope for the best. How much like my life.