A woman and her white goods - the saga continues

"Another tiiime, anoooother day, I see you standing in my waaaay, and I stop and say Helloooo my friend...". Englebert's crooning in the far reaches of my mind serves as a snigger to my synapses as my eyes squint at the yet unchallenged white good in the new apartment. (for those that are wondering, the fridge is large and frost free - civilisation!!). While it speaks volumes as to my wardrobe and lingerie drawer, not having done a single load of laundry since I've moved into this flat now puts me in a quandary. This creature has far too many knobs, buttons and blinking lights, and with a sigh of frustration, I rifle through the virgin drawer of manuals. Not the kettle, not the TV, not the phone.. phone? I don't even have one! A-ha. Washing machine. Super. Maybe not, as my eyes register a series of unfamiliar languages, none of which inspire me with confidence. I stick my head back in and do a fair take on a demented villain looking for the key to the safe. Ta dah! ENGLISH. I take a deep breath and piously hope that the exercise does not take me too long as lunch is awaiting. A quick glance at the manual makes me cocky, and I chuck in the soap and fabric softener and decide on which program to run at what temperature. But then, there are two other knobs that ping up when I press them (curious the things that fail to catch your eye at first glance!). Hmmmm. Drying. I believe that's the one I want cranked up to the hilt but the other leaves me clueless. Clearly, having to negotiate your own laundry is one of the biggest pitfalls of getting divorced. Back to the drawing board and I scan through the pages with greater attention. Aha! temperature!! That's what the little sucker is for. Right. I'm all smiles ready to go, door locked, detergent in, knobs twirled.... but wait... what's with the blinking lights??? Back to the instructions and apparently it's to delay my wash. Why the fuck would I want to delay my wash?? I'd hardly be standing all dressed up in front of a white good for chucking my garments in if I didn't want them washed till next Tuesday, would I??! I want to start the blasted cycle so I can leave for lunch and come home to laundry that's done. If only life were that easy. It blinks. I blink back. The clock ticks. Singaporean standoff. My exasperated sigh ruffles my fringe, but doesn't deter the blinker. I open the door and shut it again, hit what I believe is the start button. Nothing. I resort to my computer skills and switch the machine off and then on again. Status quo. Blink central. Knobs check. Settings check. Soap check. Door check. Switch check. Checkmate. It won't do a damn thing. By this time, my stomach decides its been ignored for far to long and swoops into executive decision mode, pinging messages to my spine that lift my hand into action and it starts viciously jabbing at the array of buttons along the light in front of it... Eureka! Either I hit the elusive button, or the machine has prudently decided to start in self defence. I don't really care, it's now chugga chuggaing and the bin is rolling. I refuse to wait and see if there are going to be any explosions and make a beeline for the door. Round 1 to the woman. Round 2 will just have to wait till I've been fed! P.S. - Apparently, people actively choose a delayed wash, because in the event they're going out, they want to avoid coming home to severely crumpled clothes, which I have been told (with dignified authority) is what happens when you leave your washing in the machine for too long after the cycle. P.P.S - Hmmmmmmm. Clearly next time, I'd better come home from lunch at 4 pm o'clock instead of 11.45 pm!