It's been one of those weeks.
First, my little electric handmixer broke. I use it every few days to make cakes and so on. No biggie, I can replace it for not too much of an outlay. More annoying than anything else.
Next, the dishwasher died. We called the trusty Fisher and Paykel man. I don't have the energy to make jokes about New Zealand accents because he announced it needed all sorts of expensive parts that would take at least a week to source and cost approximately $300. Ouch. Meanwhile we are washing dishes by hand. We are not used to this. The whole business is annoying, inconvenient and painful to the hip pocket.
Then yesterday the car died. Annoying, inconvenient, hideously expensive, and nerve wracking, as it died with myself and two children on board, in the outside lane of Melbourne's busiest multi-lane road. We waited nervously (well, Son No. 1 and I waited nervously, Son No. 2 calmly read his book the entire time) amid the noxious traffic fumes for half an hour until the roadside assistance people arrived. They prodded, poked, issued instructions to me over the roar of the oncoming semi-trailers, and pronounced the thing dead. I suspect this means I haven't the faintest idea what's wrong with your 13 year old car, lady, but it's lunchtime so I'm giving up. He called the tow truck for us, I called Mr Soup to come and collect the children, and then waited nervously another hour for the tow truck to turn up. Just as it arrived, there was a four-car pile up in front of me. I didn't cause it! Honest! By this stage I was a nervous wreck, dying of lead poisoning and desperately in need of a loo.
I arrived home courtesy of the tow truck driver and Mr Soup poured me a stiff drink.
Our own mechanic arrived this morning and quoted a figure that led to us both pouring a stiff drink.
And now I must go. There is a mountain of dishes in the kitchen that need to be washed. By hand.