SHE will kill me if I even hint at her name, but I cannot but recount how someone I know became very attached recently to one of her household appliances.
This kindly soul had been feeling the occasional twinge of arthritis in her legs and was concerned about it. She tried the various NHS prescriptions, but with only partial success. Then her thoughts began to turn to the less conventional treatments that we hear about sometimes and which are always pooh-poohed by the medical establishment.
Worth a try, she reckoned. Just see if they make any difference. She heard other sufferers say magnetic bracelets had helped them.
Doctors and scientists gasp at these claims because, under laboratory conditions at any rate, they can find no proof of any benefit. They sneer, claiming that it is all in the mind. Funny, then, that one of these men of science who had written it was all bunkum was found, some years later, to be wearing one of the bracelets himself. Hmm.
So my friend wondered if she should explore this unproven alternative therapy to see if it could have any effect on those annoying pangs in her legs. The solution recommended to her was a larger affair than a bracelet. A sizeable magnet was contained in this surgical support affair which was then wrapped around her knee.
She had it fitted last week. Hoping for quick relief, she then set about making the tea for the family after putting a mixed load in the washing machine. The machine was slooshing away nicely to itself. She got bread from the bin in the cupboard above it and turned for the teapot, but couldn’t. She tried to turn the other way but couldn’t do that, either. She was stuck.
Her right leg had stopped working. She could feel it fine, but it was strangely immobile. Oh-oh. Panic. Was she having some kind of attack? In fact, the whole right side of her body just seemed frozen to the spot. She could move her left leg, but she just didn’t have the strength to move over to the chair. She couldn’t bend down and she couldn’t reach up. What terrible ailment had crippled her?
Thankfully, she wasn’t in pain and knew her husband would be home soon. So she relaxed a bit. Then she realised she was actually stuck fast to the washing machine. Like a magnet. A magnet? It dawned on her. Yes, it was the magnetic knee wrap for her rheumatism that was keeping her thigh firmly attached to the appliance. It was really stuck fast.
Suddenly, a click. The washing machine began its spin cycle. Her efforts to extricate herself must have somehow dislodged the washing machine from its mounting, so, when the spinning began, the whole machine began to really vibrate and jump up and down. And, because she was firmly clamped to it, so did she.
She couldn’t even reach the socket to put it off and, when she tried to reach behind her for the off switch, she only managed to press something which made it go faster.
It rattled and rolled as it gave the hankies, dishcloths and frilly underthings inside it a good going over, leaving my friend all shook up. In some of these modern machines, the spin is powerful and goes on for ages. This was one of them.
By the time the throbbing machine finally slowed and began the rinse, the heavy vibration had bedraggled her with sheer exhaustion. That is not good for a woman of her age.
It’s not funny. It’s really not. Well, it is a bit, but it wasn’t for her at the time. Now fully recovered, and demagnetised, she has been playing down her own hour of trauma. She can now manage a weak smile when people say they always knew she had a magnetic personality. They also ask if the machine was made by Toyota. Was the accelerator jammed? People can be so cruel.
It is also cruel that Valentine’s Day is upon us again. It can’t be a year since we last suffered. Do married women of a certain age still expect something on February 14? There has to be a cut-off point when we men can just down tools and be allowed to stop trying to impress. It’s not as if some of us even hooked up with them because we were incurable romantics or even because we looked much better than the back end of Bus na Comhairle.
Our womenfolk obviously thought we had other endearing attributes: a sizzling personality, a vulnerability that brought out the mother in them, or even a look so glaikit that they felt they had to take us indoors out of harm’s way. Whatever it was, I’m cool with it.
But I’d better not chance it. So I’ve got till the weekend to try to come up with something that she will think delightful and precious – in other words, a complete waste of time and money – so she will consider me to have been inspired and thoughtful. Great.
A couple of years ago, I forgot. As the day wore on, the present Mrs Maciver became morose and grumpy. I had no idea what was going on. By teatime, she was slamming doors and serving up chicken goujons one step away from being charcoal. Still nothing dawned on me.
That night, there was something on the news about the record sales of Valentine cards. The penny dropped. Oops, I thought. “Right, I’m off, you uncaring old swine,” she obviously thought.
She did what she always does when she is agitated with me. She drove off in first gear, smoke trailing behind her. She is quite a sight when she does that; stooring off round the corner, engine roaring in a cloud of indignant exhaust fumes and, because she forgets to change gear, she doesn’t manage to get past 10mph.
Hey. I’ve just had an idea. Maybe I should get her a Toyota.
