Last year, my old Whirlpool washing machine, which had always been flaky (I had to hold its On button throughout), deliberately stood on its own hose until it developed an airlock and expired.
Six months later, its replacement, a Zanussi, has chosen to drown itself in its own vomit, a mixture of fabric conditioner and concentrated detergent with essential oils. I pulled on the door handle to release it but it wouldn’t let go, and then it was too late. The motor was beyond repair.
My old Krups espresso machine lasted ten years without a descale, until one day in a fit of remorse, I filled it with Oust, switched it on and produced a blue flash that cost Scottish Power a quarter of its stock market value.
The replacement, a Gaggia, refuses to give in to the inevitable, and fights back with its own sudden cappuccino explosions that shower the kitchen. p15 of the user guide says “gaggia paros explosionszeichnung”, whatever that means.
My Dyson hoover soon developed a split personality, and then hung itself by its own cable. It was never really sure what it wanted to be; a hoover, or a possessive keeper of its own cable, sullen and resentful. It would silently recoil the cable while I was hoovering, my back turned. Annoying, but then one day it went too far, tangled itself in its own cable and continued to reel itself in until something snapped. Nasty. It could have been so much more than a hoover that won its inventor the Queens Award for Industry.
Its replacement, a Henry Hoover, is genuinely sinister, with its fake smile that’s fooling no one. It follows me round the house, grinning inanely and trying to trip me up. And when I progress down the stairs, oblivious to what it’s plotting above me while I scour every tread, it has one eye on me, one eye on the top step preparing to launch itself on the unsuspecting domestic below without warning. Definitely not a machine to be trusted despite being made in England.