Hotpoint R.I.P.

This week our washing machine died.  A tragedy of epic proportions (and no, I'm not exaggerating!).  Not least because it has served us well, with eight years excellent service under it's belt and even at that, I don't think we bought it new.  (Hotpoint, pat yourself on the back).  However, due to many factors, we're not in a position to buy a new one at the moment.  Which means for the coming week at least I am left to handwash, a time-consuming activity.  It's not that I don't have the time; it's all the time I get to think while doing it.  

The following is just a taster of what's been going through my mind.
How do the enzymes in washing liquid work?
Why is my garden like a Pet Cemetery thanks to my bloody cats?
How will Andy do in his Work Experience next week?
Is the soluble plastic on washing tabs made of the same stuff as edible underwear?
Why can't every question be asked in cookie form?
Have I worked off enough energy to have a chocolate muffin for breakfast?
Why aren't I skinny already?
What was that Lost ending all about?
What the fuck was Ed Miliband thinking of?
Will I go to hell because I laughed at Frankie Boyle's joke?
Why have I suddenly become obsessed with nail varnish?
How come I didn't marry a millionaire?
What's the value of fantastic sex - a million pounds maybe?
Am I a sad case because I missed the #FridayTwiz last night?
Was the Euromillions won last night?
And why didn't I buy a ticket?
Is it an age thing that makes me so excited about the prospect of using my new vacuum cleaner?
Do I think too much?


Thankfully, I can tweet while it's drying...