The washing-machine repair quote arrived at 4:12 in the afternoon. I read it at 4:13, again after dinner, and once more in bed, in case the price had become friendlier in the dark.
The machine had already ruined one Tuesday. Nora had gone to the bathhouse without me and sent a picture of a banana escaping her bag. I was still finding dried foam beneath the kitchen units.
There was nothing to answer.
I had replied to the quote. The appointment was booked. Checking it again did not move the engineer closer to my flat. It did, however, lead to checking three other things, including an argument in a group chat I had never intended to join.
I tried putting the phone face down. My charging cable was long enough that this mainly changed which side of the phone I looked at before picking it up.
The hallway had a socket.
The following evening, I moved the charger to the hallway shelf. I checked that I could still receive the calls I genuinely needed, and sorted out my morning alarm before getting into bed. This was a practical arrangement, not an announcement that nobody should ever reach me.
I also put a notebook by the bed for the small things I remembered after lying down. The first entry was “buy washing-up liquid.” An unglamorous beginning, but accurate.
I went back to the hall once. Then I noticed I was standing there to read an email I already knew by heart and went to bed again.
Nothing had become cheaper overnight.
The next morning the quote was unchanged. So was the appointment. I made coffee before checking the group chat, which had acquired forty-seven messages about a date nobody could do.
Nora asked if next Tuesday worked. I said yes, subject to the continued good behaviour of every major appliance.
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