The day the magic cupboard broke
When I was little we had a dishwasher, but crockery had to be hand-rinsed before sticking it in, and then the machine made so much noise that as far as I can remember I only ever saw it used to hide a spare set of keys to my parents' shop.
When we moved into the new flat last May I was amazed at finding that, thirty-odd-years later, there was this magic cupboard where plates would get washed overnight by a little team of industrious pixies. Since I always was the one volunteering to do the washing-up (give me that over hoovering, anytime), I can say that the quality of my life improved.
On Saturday I told Dr B. I was a little bit worried that I would not be able to cope if I had to go back to life without a dishwasher again. I was serious.
On Sunday afternoon the machine got stuck on rinse and we found no way to get it going again. Until an engineer comes and rescues us, we have a very expensive two-tier dishrack with a door.
On Sunday night we ate ready-made pizza slices out of paper plates.
On Monday night Dr B. came home with a lovely bunch of flowers for me.
I suspect the two things are not entirely unrelated.