DEMENTIA CARE: WINDY WINTER MAINTENANCE.

We’ve reached that point at which the lights switch off around 8.00 in the blue-black morning and come on again around 4.00 in the dull grey afternoon. Cloud coverage has, mostly, been here. Proper mashed potato clouds, and lots of them.
   Occasionally, clouds vanish. Then Jack Frost comes dancing in across the rooftops and into the grass, resting a wee while on wooden fences and plastic bins. The weather is mild, turning less so. Heating is on. Blankets pile high. Ice is a rarity, for now. We’ll see.
   The clickbait news stories online predict Soviet ice storms brought to you directly from Stalin’s house. That’s on a weekly basis. At any hour, I can turn to a satellite view of the Atlantic and see snow forming mid-ocean. It transforms to rain long before it passes Ireland. Then it rains on Scotland. Rain is the thing.
   Except. A recent windy-fucketty storm refused to drop a single drop of rain. The clouds could only roll by at scudding speed. No less. They didn’t have time to stop and shower us with torrential rain. Snow was out of the question. Sleet is something no one has seen in an age.
   Yes, the heating is on. That hall is toasty. The kitchen is warm. Those rooms are protected from the chill. But this windy storm blew a gale through the keyhole. I decided to take action. After investigating a load of keyhole protectors, shields, barriers, gates, and wind blockers, I settled on a plastic flap that you glue to the door.
   This had to be tested. Planned for. Rehearsed. First. No carers due. Don’t want them flattening me as I lean over to fix this handy gadget in place. As a precaution, I lock the door anyway. There’s a bit of theatre. I dramatically wipe the metal surface free of dust and grime. (There isn’t any.)
   Then I dry the surface. I place the plastic shield over the keyhole. Yes, it fits just fine. This is something you believe to be true when you read the dimensions of the product, check the reviews, and measure your door. But it is nice to find the bloody thing fits.
   There are two covers for the glue strips. I peel one away with the skill of the Batman performing aggressive ballet moves on a long line of thugs. The second glue strip defeats me. Well. The whole situation is fucked beyond belief, now. Of course that was going to happen.
   I try again. (It’s all I can do.) These gadgets are sold in packs of two. But I am hoping to keep the second one as a spare for the day when the first one falls off the door. Of the two doors into the house, only one has a keyhole that runs open. The other is a different design, and ignores gusts of wind. Also, I’d say the door with the large open keyhole is the door that faces the wind more often. Great.
   The only solution is to remove the protective cover from the far end. These strips are red. I don’t have the option, when defusing this bomb. I must cut the red wire. Or peel back the red strip, anyway. Luckily, for a second, I manage to improve my chances by using sheer luck. It’s a great skill that I just invented.
   Luckily, I prepared the gadget for use. Also, luckily, no one knocked at either door to deliver a parcel just then. And no one phoned. The fire alarms stayed off. And I didn’t have to sneeze. I suddenly remembered that I wasn’t cooking anything anywhere in the kitchen.
   Press to the door. Hold in place firmly for half a minute. Retreat and hope the thing stays glued in place. The hardest part was trying to maintain some sort of uniform pressure on the plastic for any length of time. There’s the frame that surrounds the keyhole. And then there is the flap that comes down to block the draught. Together, these bits form a bulky arrangement.
   The trick is not to accidentally slide sideways, ripping the plastic off and bouncing into the wall. I fix the barrier in place. Then I adjust where I am kneeling. And I press on the barrier again, just to be sure. This takes a ridiculous amount of effort.
   Eventually, the job is done. I open the portal. Wind hits me in the face. I close the portal. Wind, begone! The wind claws at the door, but it can’t gain entry. Terrific. Job is done. Right? Not quite. I take the spare gadget and put it in a drawer with other handy things. It’s there if I need it.
   Job done now, right? Not quite. Unlock the door for the care team. Finished. Okay? No. Now I must get used to the presence of this piece of plastic around the keyhole. Opening and closing the door is a little bit different. Locking and unlocking the door…same. So unlocking the door and opening it becomes a whole new experience. A new keyhole experience, I guess.
   And now, I have (mostly) adjusted to the arrangement. No more irritating blasts of air from the keyhole. The windy storm that propelled clouds across the sky…that is a memory. I see more storms brewing in the Atlantic, on the satellite view. They’ll fizzle into drizzle.
   That wasn’t the only piece of maintenance. The weather was windy, rainy, with battleship grey clouds forming up in the shapes of battleships. The house is intact. No rain reaches me. Except. I’ve just put the washing machine on. Just before leaving the kitchen, I turn and spot water on the floor.
   I couldn’t have splashed that much water from the sink to the floor after cleaning that cup, surely? Correct. I switched the light on. Holy fuck, the washing machine has been hit by an iceberg and it is now spreading the joy as far as my shoes.
   Emergency mode. Where is this coming from? The machine, or the pipes behind the machine? It’s leaking from the door. I switch the machine off. A tiny corner of clothing is wedged inside the door seal. This is a first. Not just for this washing machine. But for all washing machines ever. The door sensor didn’t register the imperfect seal. That’s what I trusted. When, in reality, I should have done what I always do: check to see if any clothing overhangs the seal. Dull day. Kitchen light was off. I’d come to the end of caring routine for that morning. Next step. Switch the machine on. Grab a meal. Go.
   The meal was ready to go. I decide to switch the washing machine on at the last second. It worked. Started washing. But this tiny patch of cloth was absolutely borderline. A quick tidy around the kitchen before I left. That saved the day. Or I’d have gone away and had a meal for ETERNITY. Any time away from a room with a flood in it is ETERNITY.
   Machine off. Mop out. Clean it. Clearly not the pipes behind the machine. Now what? The water inside is finally below the lip of the seal. Flooding stopped. But I have to empty the machine. There’s going to be a bit of water as I open the door.
   Except. The door won’t open. I am on my knees on the (dry) floor, realising this is a call-out under the guarantee, the insurance, whatever, and as this is December…I’m utterly fluckergasted. It’s like being flabbergasted, only with a bit more swearing.
   I’ve endured a week without the tumble dryer, after an “emergency” product fix was arranged. Could I go a week without a washing machine? Yes. But it wouldn’t be all sweetness and light. It would be washing-ageddon. Armageddon, with no washing. And more swearing.
   The door won’t open. I’ve been here before. There are things you can do to open a jammed washing machine door. Last. Not first. Last. You call the engineer out. First. You try everything else. So. Switch the machine off. There’s a timer. Usually two minutes. After that, you can open the door.
   Doesn’t work. You go to the next stage. Wrestle the machine out of its lair and unplug the machine fully. Now it really is off. Two minutes. Nothing. Press the OFF button anyway. Maybe there’s a lingering trace of electricity in there, telling the machine to stay locked.
   Tick, tick, tick. Time’s up. Open the door. No good. Jiggle the door. Open the door. No good. Make a fist. With the base of your fist, thump the door. This sounds fucking stupid, I know. But I’ve used this method before and it worked. Doesn’t work this time. Rinse (don’t rinse…the machine is off) and repeat. Thump. Open. No. Thump again. Open. No.
   Time for string. You can loop string around the curve of the door and then pull tight to reach the catch. Apply pressure. Some fixes tell you to use wire. But wire might damage the plastic, the glass, the rubber seal, and the metal. So use string. If you pull too hard, the string snaps harmlessly.
   I try the string trick. Loop around. Draw tight. I can feel the catch. Gather both ends of the string in one hand and work the door handle with the other. No good. I keep up with this, getting close, until the string snaps. Then I have an awkward time removing the string.
      That’s going nowhere. The machine is already wrestled out of its nest. So take the screwdriver to the back of it and remove the top cover. This is tricky. Now you can see down to where the lock is. Try to manipulate lock from the inside. And from the outside at the same time. You need five hands for this. And a steady hand to hold those five hands.
   At this point, it all works and I pop the door.
   If it fails to work for you at that fateful place, a place of desolation, realistically you go back over all the methods so far and confirm that they don’t work. Then you have a terrible choice. Dismantle the lock from inside if you can. And that looked like a feat to me. An epic misadventure. Or call for help.
   You might still be able to dismantle the lock and get absolutely fucking nowhere. Then you call. I mean, you could just order a new machine…but that’s going to take days to reach you in December. Or at any time of year. With the lock popped open, I worked to remove the offending article of clothing, which was tangled in the seal. It was twisting around into a rope as the washing cycle started.
   Out came the washing. I checked the clothes. Seemed okay. Nothing torn. Close call. The seal was intact. I put the cover back on. Plugged in. Wrestled the machine into its lair. Switched on. Tried a test spin and drain first. That went okay, and took the last of the water out.
   I’d dried the floor and the outside of the machine. Looked for leaks. None. Set the machine to wash. Waited as it started up. Door solid. No leaks. All good. This was a few days ago. I hear the machine on its spin, now. It hasn’t leaked in days.
   What do I remember? All the times a piece of clothing stopped the door closing. Alarms flashed. Not this once. The most borderline of borderline events. I guess the door was working loose as the cycle progressed, leaking more water. Yet it was still locked shutter than shut.
   The weather outside matched my mood. Anyway, I fixed the problem I’d created. At that point, I fucked off and had a coffee. Though I fucked off by staying in the room to have that coffee while keeping an eye on a very useful piece of cleaning equipment. Something I’d rendered extremely useless, for a frantic half hour of fixing that felt like the entire month of December with a January thrown in as a bonus.