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Posts tagged ‘filter’

How to make the perfect cup of tea

Couldn’t tell you. Tea. The stuff turns me cold. I’ve never understood why companies would manufacture a product that tastes the same as boiling a dirty twig for three weeks and straining the result through a mouldy jock-strap – and even less why customers would choose to BUY it.

This antipathy likely stems from a childhood trauma when, innocent and impressionable, I was preyed upon by a great aunt who offered me a cup of Earl Grey.

The bitch.

My mother has always complained that I am incapable of making a decent cup of tea, which is hardly surprising given how I feel about the stuff. (I’m not a fan, in case you were wondering.) Personally, I’m not sure how you can make a ‘bad’ cup of tea – I mean, we’re only talking about degrees of foulness here.

Now, it has recently come to my attention that Husband cannot make coffee. Unlike me, there is no valid rationale for this failing, because Husband is pretty partial to a delectable cup of rich, warm, velvety coffee-flavoured scrumptiousness.

Instead, Husband prepares a menacing slop of scorched darkness, its oily surface simmering as if from the movement of tiny, stunted eels writhing in agony beneath. It is either so weak that the caffeine flavour is imperceptible, or so strong as to pop the eyeballs out of your head if you blink too suddenly. It makes milk curdle spontaneously. At times, I am driven to wonder whether Husband has mistaken salt for the sugar – or maybe rotten garlic, mouse droppings or arsenic.

In short, Husband’s coffee tastes like fear and rage and sweaty loathing in liquid form. Although he presents the coffee lovingly, drinking it makes me doubt his feelings for me, to the extent of suspecting he despises me and secretly plots my murder, the first step of his diabolical plan being to blitz my immune system with his vile concoction.

So coffee duty has reverted back to me indefinitely i.e for all time

Boiled possum piss doesn’t taste so bad

The other day, Husband and I returned from our daily walk. We were cold, wet and covered in mud and . . . there was no water. It wasn’t a broken water pump or a dead pigeon blocking the pipe: our tank was OUT OF WATER.

Running out of water in the Waitakeres is something akin to running out of sand in the desert or porn on the Internet or bacteria in a chippie. In other words: so improbable as to be statistically impossible.

“But didn’t you check the water level when you cleaned the filter?” I wailed, desperately – yet cunningly. This was a fell blow on two counts: not only administering a verbal Chinese burn for being out of water, but also suggestive that Husband was not cleaning the filter on a monthly basis.

Which he wasn’t.

Hey, it’s not MY job. Husband and I have clearly delineated duties. I am responsible for cooking, grocery shopping, book-keeping, timely coffee supply, phoning, dog maintenance, dishwashing, mopping, dusting, laundry including ironing and clothespegs, picture framing and Christmas/birthday cards. When I say Husband is responsible for everything else, well. Not to be dismissive, but there’s not much left: car and bike maintenance, laptop support, general DIY, any soldering and/or welding, garbage relocation, fencing, water blasting, and monthly cleaning of the goddamn water filter.

When we first moved into the house, the tank was sourced by the creek. However, several sources – some of them reliable – had it that possum piss is hazardous to human health, so Husband rerouted runoff from the roof. Cursory investigation revealed the inlet pipe to the tank had come away from the gutters.

I didn’t want to order a tank of water, because – quite apart from the cost – it would undoubtedly spark a rainstorm that would rage for months, causing rivers to burst their banks, driving innocent Aucklanders from their homes and flooding farms. That’s what happened shortly after moving into the house, when after weeks of drought, we ordered a tank of water. Whereupon it rained solidly for the next three days.

So Husband reaffixed the inlet pipe, in addition to collecting water from the creek. For days, I have boiled water to wash dishes, instead of wasting water by running the hot tap; I did not run the shower before getting in (chilly); I have brushed my teeth in half a cup of water; laundry has piled up in the garage.

But today Husband was out water blasting the MR2, so I guess our crisis is over.

Either that, or it was an emergency

Obscene jelly

Just back from a quick trip across the country to visit my rellies in Co Kilkenny. I tried to update Deadlyjelly – really. However, my uncle’s Internet Provider helpfully supplies site blocking software to spare them the likes of Juicygirls. When I attempted to access Deadlyjelly, the site was blocked for being ‘obscene’ and ‘extreme’.

I may be ungracious about accepting compliments, but I would never turn one down

Exploding slimy things

Every morning since Husband departed, I lie in bed and squeeze my eyes shut and think, “I hope the house isn’t broken today.”

When I got up this morning, the water wasn’t working. Not in a sense of under applied industry, but it refused to come out of the taps. Maybe it’s because I forgot to click my heels together three times; it’s a tricky manoeuvre when you’re horizontal and covered by two duvets.

Normally, I would return to the bedroom and pull Husband out of bed by the ankles and moan until he fixed it. That was not an option this morning, due to Husband’s non-existence in the general vicinity of the country.

So I applied my laser sharp logic to the problem. Water not coming out of taps: is tap turned on? Affirmative. Is water tank full? I went outside and hit it with a stick; couldn’t tell. So . . . got to be the water pump then. Since I had no idea where the water pump was located, I went to poke the fuse box with a wooden spoon instead. It always seems to work for Husband.

Having poked the fuse box with no result other than spark warnings, I called our landlord.

“Check the water pump,” he advised.

“Yes, of course. Ok,” I said. “Er. Where is it?”

Having donned wellies and located the water pump, I kicked it a couple of times. Seemed to have no effect. I pulled a lever, screwed a couple of screwy things that were unscrewed, pushed a button.


I may not actually need a husband after all.

Later, our landlord Darren came around to see that I hadn’t been overly traumatized by the experience. He gave me a tour of the water pump, which I can’t say was as exciting as the field trip to the Guinness Brewery when I was fourteen, but really very nearly.

The water filter was clogged with a viscous goo: six months worth of dead creepy crawly, rotting leaves and mould. Unless some large, brown, slimy thing crawled into the filter and exploded – which, given this is New Zealand, is not entirely improbable

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