The Bendix washing machine was already elderly
when my mother, acquiring a newer model, donated
the reject to us for our new home. Or was it
not until seven years later, the year that her first
grandchild arrived? I can’t quite recall. Nor can I now
picture it clearly. So why does it come to my mind?
A couple of reasons. One, that it had to be bolted
down to the floor, to prevent it going walkabout,
a perambulation whenever it got to the spin
part of its washing cycle. The other, the noise
that it made as it spun, a rhythmic staccato juddering
with a touch of syncopation.