Before my weekend visit to England, I was dismayed to find that my decrepit, cripplingly old toploading washing machine was once again broken.
"This time it cannot be fixed," said the Hoff. "Es ist kaputt, finished".
I wasn't sure I believed her because she hadn't actually had anyone in to look at it and this was her personal verdict. She left a note reminding me yet again that the washing machine does not belong to the flat; it is my responsibility to repair or replace.
The Lavamat 240, circa 1972.
Being escorted from the building.
The space available for the washing machine is in the bathroom and is 45 cm wide. Trying to find a new machine to fit into this narrow gap was not going to be easy, particularly when I was reluctant to spend more than 100 euros. It would surely have to be another toploader. I turned to eBay.
There was one machine being auctioned, located in Karlsruhe, about an hour's drive away. It looked fine, was the right size, and a reasonable price. I put in a bid and waited. Some days later, the auction mysteriously ended early. By this time I was thoroughly fed up of handwashing and had resorted to digging clothes out of the charity bag so I was unwilling to give up when I'd found what I needed.
I emailed the seller, who I was disconcerted to find was called, I kid you not, Trusty Dirk. I don't know about you but I have reservations about buying domestic electrical appliances over the internet from a man named Trusty Dirk. However, these were desperate times. I asked why the auction ended - he replied to say that he'd been offered 25 euros to sell the machine immediately.
What's a good trade name that'll show customers I'm honest and reliable?
I emailed back and offered 50. My limit for the auction would have been 100 so I considered this a bargain. In another suspicious twist, Trusty Dirk, who I was beginning to suspect was less than completely trustworthy, replied to say that ok, we had a deal but I need to hurry because there's a lot of interest. I doubted that but wasn't in a position to argue. He asked me to call him to arrange collection.
Later that evening I hesitantly dialed the number and waited. A male voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is that, er, Trusty Dirk?"
"Look, if you're the one calling about the fertiliser you can forget it ok, I'm hanging up!"
"No, no!" I managed to cry, "I'm calling about the washing machine, I emailed you earlier?"
There was a pause.
"Are you the one that's going to pay 50 euros?"
"Yes."
"Good. You can pick it up Saturday morning. You just need to bring 50 euros cash."
"Erm, ok."
He gave me his address and hung up. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing.
I drove to Karlsruhe with Tim. Shortly before we arrived I had a text from Trusty Dirk, asking if I was coming alone.
"NO", I texted back. "I am with ten male friends, eight of whom are policemen and the other two are in the army."
Disappointingly, or not, depending how you look at it, Trusty Dirk turned out to be a skinny ginger economics student at the University of Karlsruhe - even more disappointing, for Tim at least, was that he lived on the fifth floor of the building. Happily though we were soon on our way back with a new old toploading washing machine that is at least twice the height of the old one but fortunately the same width.
I have so far used it twice; it seems to only respond to the D program ("Buntwashe") and it periodically makes alarming clanging noises but it works and the spin is quiet. I try not to touch it if possible.
The newly ensconced Washmaschin; not the most aesthetically pleasing appliance but for 50 euros I can live with it.
As to what happened to the old one I cannot honestly say. Guido hauled it down the stairs and put it out on the street. Twenty minutes later it was gone. As Adam observed, in Germany even the scroungers are efficient.
