As the last bit of water was pumped out and it clicked into gear I immediately knew there was something strange a foot. The rumble was too low, almost subaudible but it had a clatter in it’s note that said ‘You’re going to regret living with me’. And it was right.
The temperature started to drop in the room, white frosty steam started appearing in my breath, the light bulbs dimmed, flickering as they dulled, and then it hit. Full force, completely out of no-where like a freight train roaring through an empty station at full speed in the night, while you stand at the platform clutching at your belongings as the wind roars and the scraping heavy steel monster goes hurtling past in front of you at 100mph. The difference though between a freight train and the washing machine is that in a matter of seconds the train has passed and you are back sitting in silence with your beating heart. With the washing machine it’s relentless. You have nowhere to hide, the sound will find you and bash on your skull with an aluminium frypan and snatch the words away from your mouth as you yell out for help.
I got used to sitting outside on my doorstep a lot that year. It was a concrete house and the walls were thick. Outside you could still hear the machine smashing away inside like a rock drill and but least it took away the frypan on the head element.
Whittaker also describes the time the washing machine vibrated so badly that a