Our council no longer does their twice yearly hard rubbish collection, much to the disgust of many who loved to peruse the piles of trash and find the treasure within. Mr Dog is especially sad, having spent hours sniffing, nuzzling and of course, marking the cast offs as we walked the streets in the build up to pick up time.

Now it’s a solo pursuit, and having recently upgraded my mattress and several other items of household furniture, and collectively decided putting a frying pan underneath our leaking washing machine was perhaps not the way to go, James and I organised our very first hard rubbish collection.

James had hurt his back a day before we had to load everything outside, but it didn’t really disturb me, because I’m strong enough to carry heavy and/or awkward things, so hauling a queen size futon mattress, giant bookshelves, and putting the washing machine on a sheet, dragging it to the front door then tilting it from corner to corner until it was out on the nature strip didn’t really seem too hard. Within minutes, someone had knocked on our door to ask if they could take some things, and almost half of our stash of unloved goods had been claimed.

The next day, the rubbish had gone, our garage was swept, and I’d even mowed the lawn. Feeling quite domestically proud, we discovered a cheap washing machine at a large chain store just over the road. We bought one, arranged delivery, and when the machine arrived, I unpacked it, thinking I’d have it set up within minutes, with my current record.

Unfortunately things weren’t so easy, since the machine was missing the water pipe, rendering it totally useless. I got on the phone, spoke to the squeaky voiced teen in charge of that department, and spent the next forty five minutes trying to explain that unless they could get me a water pipe, I wanted the machine gone. It was the best complaining I’ve ever managed, and finally the guy agreed they’d come and take it away in the morning. Luckily I got to pass the baton to James, since I had to work the next day.

Very soon after I’d hung up the phone, I had the third of four practice massage clients arrive. The diploma I’m doing requires 90 hours of massage by the time the practical exam happens, so I’m trying to get as many happening as I can. Earlier on the same day, my massage table had oddly broken in the middle, so being the kind of girl who puts a frying pan underneath a washing machine, I bought some gaffer tape, lay underneath the table with my stapler, and made some repairs. At this point, I’ll also mention before the breakage, the piece that had broken was only secured with staples, so this isn’t quite as insane as it sounds.

The second client had been fine on the table, and the third went swimmingly until the massage was over. Again, the middle section broke off. About now a light went off in my brain. This table was meant for pregnant women, and until these massages, I hadn’t ever got anyone to turn over on it. The main section of the table has a pop out stomach piece, and it was rapidly becoming clear it wasn’t for non-pregnant usage. So because the third and fourth massages were back to back, I spent several minutes re-stapling the table, which of course collapsed in the middle of the massage. I ended up having to gaffer tape around the whole centre to ensure non-breakage. All in the presence of the person I was massaging, which must have been almost as relaxing for him as it was for me.

By the end of the day I was destroyed, and sweating crazily. I hated that table more than anything in the world, and wished I’d put it out on the nature strip the night before with the stupid futon mattress. But cooler heads prevailed, and I bought myself a new table on Saturday, which is so beautiful, so wonderful, and so solid and safe I can’t help loving it. So, out of adversity, excellent massage tables are purchased. The washing machine … seems to be a different story.

Today I’m loving: this picture, courtesy of the flickr mosaic maker

the many moods of my sweet child