Eight weeks ago, the washing machine broke. An EO1 error. Incredibly, I managed to find the manual. It appeared to have had a run in with some coffee and possibly tomato ketchup but there it was amongst a pile of instruction booklets for other appliances which are no longer in the flat. I did the sensible thing and put them all back in the draw again.

An EO1 error means the door is not closed properly. I tried closing the door again, closing the door gently, slamming the door and finally turning it off at the wall. Still EO1. So, I call the landlord, no response. I email the landlord, no response. A week later, still EO1. Once again turning it on and off failed so I plucked up the courage to go and see him in his office.

The landlord explained to me that I could use the public launderette instead. “It is only £5 per wash, and they stay open until 8pm every night” he told me in the manner of an insurance salesman who knows their products are inferior to their competitors. On thinking about it, the fact he knew so much about the workings of the launderette was not a good sign.

Every week I sent messages asking for updates. Nothing until five weeks later when I was given an email address and told to contact the company myself. Not really the scenario I was expecting but at least it was progress. I explained in the email what the problem was and gave all my details. I then got an email back asking for the same information I had just given them. Days later, they wanted the model number. A week after that came a request for the serial number, then a photograph of the serial number.

Yet more emails followed ‘Date of Purchase, Retailer’ “No idea, it was here when I moved in” ‘Part Required’ “No idea, I am not a washing machine specialist, that is why I am contacting you”. These answers were not what they were looking for and I was told that without this information, they would be unable to arrange a site visit.

Back to the landlord I went. However, he was on holiday and I got somebody else who was entirely unaware of the situation. Perhaps this was the key as by the time I got home I had an email saying the problem has been logged and somebody would contact me for an appointment. Why this wasn’t possible several weeks earlier is unclear. The following day, an email came saying the site visit would be conducted today. So I waited in all day and guess what, no site visit.

Apparently, the reason for this was that there was no model number or serial number inputted on the form. So, I submitted those again. Then I got a message asking for a photograph of the serial number. Luckily, I already had one.

Five days later, I got a phone call at work saying the engineer was about to leave as nobody was at the flat to let him in. Off home I ran to find him sitting on my doorstep. We went upstairs and he staired at the machine “This is a Sharp”, “yes, it is” I replied, “I only do Ricoh, you should have told us the serial number so the right guy would have been here”. Instead of yelling at him that I did send in the serial number (twice) and took photos of the serial number (twice), I calmly asked if there was anything he could do. He took out his phone and went onto You Tube. ‘It says EO1 means the door isn’t closed properly’, he told me (something I already knew from reading the manual weeks ago).

Following the advice from the You Tube film, the engineer got out an electric screwdriver and tightened two screws taking a total of around five seconds. This fixed the problem, triggering a range of emotions in me from relief the problem is sorted to anger I didn’t just look up a You Tube clip myself. When this work was done, he sat down at my kitchen table and said “you don’t have any Jaffa Cakes do you?”. I didn’t.

That night, I washed pretty much everything I owned so pleased the machine was finally working. It also occurs to me that anyone with access to You Tube can be a washing machine engineer… Plus you get Jaffa Cakes…

We had got up early that morning to go on a tour. These were put on for crew members at heavily discounted prices to get us all away from the ship and see some of the places the passengers go to rather than the normal crew member destinations of coffee shops, internet cafes and supermarkets.

             So it was unusual, that I was on a bus to see the crocodiles from the port of Darwin (which is on the north coast of Australia). Darwin is the biggest town for hundreds of miles although this is rather like saying a puddle is the biggest expanse of water in a desert and like the desert, Darwin is also hot and dusty.

             I guess the mix of the early morning and the warm weather was the reason that our driver missed the turning and our bus rolled down the bank and ended up on its side in the swamp. The thing I remember about this was the silence, nobody screamed or made any noise at all, we were all just stunned, confused, possibly dreaming. As luck would have it, nobody was badly injured but now there was the problem of how to get out of the bus since the door we arrived through was currently underwater.

We had safety drills on the ship every two weeks and because of this we were all actually fairly calm. The exception to this was the driver who seemed to be having a panic attack and yelling (in a Dad’s Army way) not to panic.

             We quickly found that the emergency escape window was now above us and since they were nearest, the casino dealers were tasked with breaking the window with the attached hammer. They hit it with a huge bang but unfortunately, on impact the window stayed intact, and the hammer broke. Fortunately (even though it was early morning) the casino team had brought bottles of beer with them, and it was one of these bottles that broke the window. At this point glass, and beer, cascaded downwards bouncing off everything and everyone. Then to add to the whole joy of our adventures, mosquitos filled the overturned bus.

As the bus slowly sunk into the swamp, we all climbed out of the window and had to jump into the water. It was a fair height and the process of climbing onto the seats, pulling ourselves through the broken window and jumping through, was a physical challenge most of us were not planning on doing in our tired early morning state.

Then we started to notice that we were not alone in the swamp, there must have been about a dozen crocodiles looking at us. Going into survival mode, there was no time to worry about the water, mosquitos, glass or any other swamp creatures. Instead, the challenge was how best to climb through the window, avoiding the obstacles and not cutting ourselves. The crocs were not in the least bit interested by all this commotion and carried on sun tanning.

We were picked up in groups of four by rescue vehicles but rather than going back to the ship instead we (surprisingly in hindsight) carried on with the tour which seemed very dull in comparison with the journey. It did, however, give us all a great excuse for being late back to work. Perhaps there is a reason we usually just went to the supermarket…

The biggest occasion of the week in the rural town I find myself living, is the market day. From my little flat overlooking the town square I get to witness it all and due to a poorly fitting single glazed window, I get to hear it all too.

The preparations begin the night before as two grumpy middle-aged men in high vis jackets put cones out to stop people parking on the market square. That is the easy bit. The harder bit is finding out who has not read the signs and locating them to move their cars out of the way. Cue a lot of shouting from the high vis two at hapless tourists “can’t you read” “are you stupid” and last week “you shouldn’t be allowed out”. Charming.

Market day itself begins before sunrise as the stalls are set up and the traders arrive with their wares. There are around 15 stalls. One is a greengrocer; another is a fishmonger. The rest sell a variety of things nobody really wants including wooden duck figurines, copies of posters signed by celebrities from yesteryear and model train parts. Another stall is dedicated to CD sales (desperately hoping they will come back in fashion) and weirdly, there are two stalls specialising in gentleman’s slippers.

From my little flat, I can’t fail to notice that market day comes with its own musical accompaniment. This is provided by a group of well meaning (but terribly out of tune) singers from a local church singing the material from their services. I have never seen anyone stop to listen. I have to turn the radio up louder to drown them out.

It is fair to say that the patrons of the market fit a particular demographic group. The local cafes are aware of this so on market day a range of demographic appropriate offers appear, most of which offer tea, soup and other produce that doesn’t involve a lot of chewing.

By 3pm, it is all over. The high vis two have removed the cones, the fishmonger has tipped ice down all the drains, the terrible buskers are having tea & soup and the same number of wooden ducks that have been there since sunrise are back in their van.

I wonder how much money the market really makes. It never seems that busy, but it is the heart of the town, and it would be a shame to lose it. Perhaps next week I should buy slippers from both the rival stalls and some celebrity memorabilia just to support the traders. What to do about the terrible buskers from the local church is a whole other matter… Perhaps the two men in high vis jackets could get involved and move them along… to somewhere no one can hear them….

The thing with birthdays ending in a ‘0’ is that they are rare and unavoidable. We get plenty of notice that they are coming so can make plans for something special to celebrate, or we can do our best to completely ignore them. I chose the latter option.

My recent 0 birthday fell on a Sunday, I had booked the weekend off work and planned to spend it out of town, away from the risk of any kind of surprize. This plan was thwarted when (yet again) train strikes were announced so my plans were cancelled, and I decided just to spend the day at work instead. The gamble here was did anyone at work know about my 0 birthday…

Sunday lunch at the rural pub probably deserves its own blog such is the peculiarity of that weekly occasion but safe to say, that it didn’t disappoint…

Highlights of my 0 birthday included

• Telling a customer that they couldn’t switch their parsnip from the Sunday roast for an ice cream sundae for free
• A waiter falling over a dog and sending an entire tray of drinks over a customer in their 80s
• Somebody phoning up to ask for the contact details of the pub round the corner
• A child drawing on a wall in felt tip
• Going to the Co-op as the kitchen had somehow managed to run out of chips by 2pm
• Arguing with a delivery driver who was adamant that a five-foot Christmas tree is the same height as a five-meter Christmas tree
• Cleaning up the results of when the felt tip bearing child went on to have explosive diarrhoea on a dining room chair

I thought I had got away with it until the end of shift debrief when the chef asked me when my birthday was. It was a heart stopping moment, I paused just long enough for the phone to ring again (‘Has somebody handed in a picture of Del Boy in a frame? My mother has left it somewhere’). By the time that was dealt with, the moment had passed, and conversation moved to something else.

I now have ten years to plan how to avoid my next birthday ending in a 0. In ten years’ time, the trains will probably still be on strike and I will probably still be working with the public. I just wish for less diarrhoea on the furniture…

The coffee machine at the rural pub is terrifying. It is noisy, sprays hot liquids around and has sixteen buttons to choose from. It is no wonder I spent my first two weeks trying to avoid it that was until everyone started to notice and I had to learn how to work the stupid thing.

One thing that became clear to me is that all the staff members who make coffee, make it differently. One person will say it should be ‘milk first’, somebody else ‘coffee first’. Should it be a double shot or a single shot? Depends, who you ask. That is before we consider the actual presentation…

However, luckily for me, it turns out very few of the customers know the difference (or really understand what they are ordering) and the only complaint you will ever get is if the biscuit is forgotten.

Our most popular order is the americano – just coffee and hot water – yet almost everyone wants milk to put in it (making it not an americano). Nobody seems that clear about the difference between a flat white and a cappuccino. When I asked, I got the answer ‘flat whites go in a white cup, the others go in a mug’. Although I am sure there must be more to it, I have followed this rule and I seem to be getting away with it.

A trick I learned is chocolate powder covers everything. It is fine if it looks a mess, just cover it with powder. I do this on a mocha, a hot chocolate and now a cappuccino (in a mug) then walk away quickly before they have time to taste it.

Another confusing order is ‘extra hot’. This request comes in reasonably often and is odd, how can water be hotter than boiling point? It all comes out the machine at the same temperature. We get round this conundrum by letting the other coffees in the same order cool down meaning the ‘extra hot’ one is the only one served with the correct level of heat.

By far my favourite order is a cafetiere. Coffee pot, milk jug, sugar bowl, biscuit. Easy. The scary machine is not involved. I try and steer anyone who is unsure towards choosing this option. They often seem quite relieved when I suggest it.

So, what I have learned is this, at the rural pub, very few people ordering coffee know what it is they are ordering. This is handy as neither do the people making it.

Just don’t forget the biscuit.

The NHS have published the following advise for coping during a heatwave

“Have cold food and drinks, avoid alcohol, caffeine and hot drinks, and have a cool shower or put cool water on your skin or clothes. Keep your living space cool. Close windows during the day and open them at night when the temperature outside has gone down. Electric fans can help if the temperature is below 35 degrees.”

Of course, I ignored this and spent the hottest day of the recent heatwave walking three miles to a dog show held in a field up a hill. Aside from the heat, another surprising factor in this choice is that I don’t really like dogs. Their behaviour is unpredictable, I could really do without all the barking and jumping at people.

When I arrived, I was informed the tickets were £10 and cash only so I had to go back into town to find a cash point. It strikes me this is the kind of place that still pay for goods by postal order. I was told to give my £10 to Julie who put it straight into her pocket and told me receipts were not available. I am still unclear if Julie had any connection to the show.

The dog show itself was held in a large ring surrounded by a series of stalls selling, amongst other things

• Axes (‘for the adventurous at heart’)
• Telescopes
• Cookies at £3 each
• A lot of tweed

There were a group collecting signatures to overturn the fox hunting ban with leaflets encouraging people write to Tony Blair, who presumably won’t be that interested since he left his role as Prime Minister fifteen years ago (there have been five other prime ministers in that time). Perhaps its time that group update their materials.

There was trouble in the central arena as Barney (a beagle) was disqualified from the beagle show for ‘excessive barking’. I watched as a stern looking woman in wellington boots (even though it hadn’t rained in weeks) deposited Barney into the back of a range rover and drove off before the beagle show had finished.

I found a shady spot next to a van selling ‘Hawaiian style cocktails’. Oddly, this particular crowd were not interested in cocktails at 11am. My attention strayed to another man who was going from van to van asking for Ribena. Apparently it was for ‘Harley’ his foxhound who had deserved a special treat. I have never heard of dogs drinking Ribena before and neither had the stall holders who failed to deliver the special treat for Harley.

A large part of the event was a sheepdog trial. Having sheep chased around by dogs in 31-degree heat didn’t seem to be a problem for anyone present. The announcer informed us “I’ve been carefully watching the judge, she seems to be smiling, a bit”. Hardly a ringing endorsement.

All this excitement meant I was distracted and missed the awarding of the best walked hound. I did, however, hear the announcement thanking their sponsor (an insurance broker) for their ‘generous’ prize which was £2.50. I actually bought a program to double check this amount and yes, the insurance broker really did donate £2.50 as a prize.

I imagined that would be my favourite announcement of the day but it was beaten a short time later by “does anyone have any lettuce that Shirley’s Baps can borrow?”. Shortly followed by “Shirley’s Baps are still looking for lettuce, they sent young Josh to Tesco more than an hour ago, but he has gone AWOL”. Tesco was no more than a ten-minute walk away. Maybe he had gone back for Harley’s Ribena or stopped off for a Hawaiian style cocktail. I feel ‘young Josh’ probably deserved a drink for all he has to put up with.

Come to think of it, I feel most people there could have done with a drink…