Dishy Washy

I am in love with an inanimate object. She cost me $150 on eBay and she is cheap to run. I love my dishwasher. She is my comrade in the war against grotty kids. As a single mother with children who have lost the use of their legs and their ability to put socks in the washing machine, my dishwasher is my best friend and one true love.

My friend calls dishwashers the marriage saver, perhaps only if you marry someone who doesn’t have substance abuse issues. My DW is addicted to tablets, but she stopped me doing the dishes. I hate fancy plates that don’t fit in her warm wet insides. Anything delicate is banished from my kitchen. If I bribe my youngest hooligan she sometimes unloads my dishwashy friend.

I adore taking my kids to the park knowing that my dish pig is hard at work filling my flat with the pong of detergent. When we return home I open her up and my face is hit with a blast of her wonderful wafting steam.

She has great rhythm, I love the way she hums at night; I go to sleep in my living room to the soothing sound of the white machine slaving over my cutlery and pans. Bliss in a box.

Giddy Up

Here I am on the day of the race that stops a nation, dressed in jodhpurs and a top hat, hamming it up for drunk people, most of whom don’t realise this how I earn my living (they just think I’m some kind of kooky lady), as they slam down their drinks. We humans are very strange, we tame wild creatures, then watch them going round and round a track. When I was a young warthog, I went to the races most weekends with my grandpa Aubrey, who was nuts about betting on the gee gees. He would place small bets for me and I always picked the grey horses, probably because of Gunsynd, the Goondiwindi grey, a famous racehorse from the 1970s. Now I’m getting paid to act like a goose on a horse, my grandpa would be so proud.