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Mary finished cleaning the kitchen sink and she gazed out of the window at the dull dark clouds. Rain was on the way and everything seemed miserable as if her whole world had a screw loose, and she wasn’t sure how to fix it.
The fridge motor switched on and interrupted her day dreaming, its humming sound took on a rhythmic beat of da daa . . . dum dum and she imagined herself in a Viennese Waltz cavorting with a tall Austrian Hussar and so she twirled and turned across the floor.
The hoover in the corner perked up. ‘May I have the pleasure?’ said Mr Dyson.
‘Delighted,’ said Mary and curtsied. She took the hoover by the handle, and they swept around the kitchen dancing to the music.
The sound of the fridge rumbled on as rain washed against the windows sounding like soft violins, the slow-cooker gurgled in delight and the kettle whistled as a flute. The washing machine shuddered out the bass of beating drums and the Dolce Gusto joined in with a whoosh, whoosh, sending aromatic plumes of percolating coffee into the air.
Mary skipped and spun, swinging on the arm of her handsome Mr Dyson as she moved around her tiny ballroom. From the clock, a cuckoo sprang out and trumpeted like a hunting horn as the timer on the oven played an allegro bleeping in consonance with the kitchen orchestra.
The house front door slammed. The music stopped. Mary dropped the hoover into the cupboard under the stairs, it groaned. She walked into the hall.
“I am shattered,” her husband said, “I’m completely worn out.” He gave her a gentle peck on the cheek and slouched into the living room where he slumped onto the sofa.
‘Did I hear our white goods singing?”
“No,” said Mary shaking her head, “besides that’s racist.”
“What!” he said.
“They are not white goods.” Mary undid his jacket.
“I’m too run down to argue.” He kicked off his shoes and laid back.
“We refer to them as appliances these days,” she said. She reached into his trousers’ pocket and pulled out a long flexi-cord that she then plugged into a battery recharging pack and switched it on.
“Ah . . . that’s better,” he said and closed his eyes.
Mary returned to the kitchen and made a call on her mobile.
A loud voice answered. “Mr Wong’s Magical Electrical Emporium, what can I do for you?”
“Mr Wong, it’s Mary.”
All the appliances in the kitchen gave a short gasp, the Dolce Gusto hissed, the hoover peeked out from the cupboard.
“Yes Mary, you need a replacement.”
“Sort of Mr Wong, do you have any Hussars?”
All the appliances gave out an expressive sigh, they were safe, she wasn’t disposing of them.
“You need a new man . . . why not repair the one you have?”
“Mr Wong, my husband is clapped out, worn out and completely flat.”
“We can fit a new battery.”
“It’s no use, he has lost all his energy. I need one with spark, style and stamina.”
“Okay, Mrs Mary I will bring a new one tomorrow, anything else.”
“Yes, there is a screw in my head that rattles and seems to be very loose.”
“Oh dear,” said Mr Wong, “sounds very bad, an emergency.”
“It is, an emergency. Oh, it really is, Mr Wong.”
“I will come very immediately,” Mr Wong laughed. “I bring new parts . . . again.”
Mary put her mobile down, she grinned. There was always something special about the way Mr Wong fiddled with her parts. He was gentle and made her feel so invigorated that her whole world no longer felt so miserable.