It started fairly innocently. I had decided to get my washing done on thursday evening, when the college machines were more likely to be free.
It has to be said that I am not the most domestically gifted student in existance, and washing machines still induce an unnatural panic in me. I loaded the machine with my first load of clothes (my g/f having told me I had to separate light from dark) and closed the door, setting the machine to wash. A countdown appeared on the machine telling me it would take 45 minutes to be finished.
This is where I made my first mistake, the laundry room is close to the bar, and so I decided that while I waited I would partake of a pint of that most wonderful of judgement clouders, Stella Artois. An hour and a half later, having stupidly become involved in some drinking games with my mates in the bar, I headed back to the laundry room to put the next load in.
Having transferred the first load of washing to the dryer without incident I loaded the washer again, but the leg of my jeans refused to stay inside the machine while i closed the door. As the last pint snaked it’s tendrils into my mind I came up with a plan. Placing my hand into the washing machine, I intended to slam the door quickly, whilst removing my hand from the rapidly narrowing gap between the door and the washer, thus leaving the offending article of clothing insufficient time to escape. It was, as Baldrick would say ‘a cunning plan’.
I held the jeans leg inside the washer, and imparted an almighty force to the closing of the door, whilst removing my hand not quite rapidly enough from the rapidly narrowing gap. The door closed, and the catch engaged, locking it for the duration of the cycle…trapping the very the tip of my index finger firmly 'twixt door and frame.
I calmly assessed the situation I was in, whilst uttering such profanities as would be like to make a nun’s ears turn blue and fall off. Clearly I could not wait 45 minutes for this infernal contraption to release me, I had to find a way out. I then decided to extract the imprisoned digit with a firm, sharp tug, sucessfully removing most of the skin in the process. “F**K”, i shouted, clutching the bleeding finger in my hand, just as two shapely young fresher girls walked into the room.
“Are you OK?”, inquired shapely fresher #1 with a concerned look. I gave the only manly answer I could.
“Perfectly fine thankyou”
“But you’re bleeding” said shapely fresher #2.
“Tis but a scratch” I responded, looking at my injury, and seeinig that by bleeding they meant dripping blood onto the floor. I left the laundry room, with the parting advice to be careful of the washing machines because “That one there is evil”
I returned to my room, feeling stupid, to clean and dress the wound, before returning to the bar to continue my evening.
My apologies for the mini-novel, but I could hardly just say I slammed my finger in a washing machine door, could I?
