A very inconvenient piggy-bank

Coming back from work, I could see Nigel’s coat in the hall.  But no Nigel.

“Helloooo!”

“Gnnnn….”

The strange noise led me through to the kitchen.

On its side was the washing machine.  Wedged between it and the wall was Nigel.  Dirty suds stained the floor and he was up to his elbows in the device, like James Herriot delivering a problem calf.

I had nonchalantly put the sheets to wash before I went to work, but he had come home to find it all gone wrong.

With gritted teeth, and a pair of pliers, he was tugging at something caught in the pipe.  Again and again there was a clunk as he lost his grip on the object.

Eventually he wrestled out 71p’s worth of change. 

Unfortunately the machine was still making a weird sound afterwards so I now need to get it fixed.

The whole thing reminded me of a childhood gift that a relation once gave me.  It was a ceramic piggy bank where the only way to access my savings was to break the pig.

(And by the way, who on earth would do that to a child?!?)

All in all, I’m not sure 71p was worth taking the machine apart for. 

But at least I’m not emotionally attached to it in the way I was to poor Porky.