Jonny McCambridge: Willy Loman and my antique dishwasher

I learnt a lot of things at school and university, and, for the most part, the detail has now slipped from my mind like the leftover Coco Pops from my son’s breakfast bowl sliding down the sink hole. If I could remember with clarity even a quarter of the things I once knew, I’d be a fascinating dinner party guest.

But little scraps have stayed with me, not full stories or theories, but minor fragments that I occasionally try to put together in a logical way.

I was more suited to the arts than science or maths, and the intensity with which we studied literature at A-level means that fuzzy memories, certain characters and stories still randomly float somewhere deep in my brain.

We read ‘Death of a Salesman’ by Arthur Miller, a classic play which touched on themes such as the futility and unattainability of the American dream.

What I remember most clearly about it is that Willy Loman’s refrigerator did not work.

This is not as glib a point as it sounds. The broken fridge is a recurrent theme of the play. In addition, Willy Loman’s roof leaks and (if I remember correctly) he struggles to make the monthly payments on his car and mortgage.

At one point he bitterly complains that every item seems to break just as the point when it is close to being paid off. He is constantly dissatisfied with the material items he has bought supposedly to make his life better. He can never get ahead.

It all represents perhaps the author’s attempt to make a point about the shallowness of consumerism and how capitalism is undermining the human spirit and condition.

I think about Willy Loman every time something breaks in my house. In truth, I’ve been thinking about him a lot recently.

As I write this my oven is broken. So is my shower, and the immersion heater.

My dishwasher, while still functioning at a certain level, is ancient and needs replaced. Bits have started falling off it, which I understand not to be a good sign.

My fridge has seen better days. My freezer produces excess ice at such a rapid rate that I often find the shelves are impossible to open and I have to chip away at the glacial facade like some downsized Everest adventurer.

Furthermore, there are parts of my home which would benefit greatly from being re-painted or re-carpeted and I live in constant fear of my ancient oil boiler failing, as I know it eventually will. I also drive an aged car, which emits ominous sounds suggesting all is not well.

There is so much to be done and, like Willy Loman, I am cowed by the prohibitive financial burden.

With my mind so occupied, I begin to deliver a Lomanesque soliloquy, rich in profundity, to my wife.

‘Isn’t it amazing,’ I say. ‘How everything breaks at the same time. It is almost as if there is some grand design by the manufacturers behind it all.’

‘But they didn’t all break at the same time,’ she responds. ‘The immersion heater broke last year, and the oven’s been dead for months … and I’ve been warning you for ages about the dishwasher and the shower.’

‘Hmmm,’ I respond, feeling deflated that philosophical musings of such gravity can be so swiftly dismantled.

But I have to concede my wife does have a point. Certain tasks which could have been sorted some time ago have been perpetually put off. I have been waiting for that elusive time when I might have a bit of spare cash.

Also, I have a temperamental resistance to buying new stuff. There is part of my mind which still finds it difficult to accept that I am a homeowner. Once I had gone to the trouble of putting stuff in the house, I suppose I thought that was the end of the process and I would be able to spend money for the rest of my life on bags of Revels and Curly Wurlys. The lesson that the expense just keeps coming and there is no respite has been a bitter one.

To illustrate this, I will talk further about my dishwasher. It has been with me for so long that I cannot remember how or when it came into my possession. I assume I did not have it when I was a new-born infant, but I have no clear recollection of at which point in my subsequent journey I acquired it.

About seven years ago it stopped working. I took what I assumed to be the next logical step and phoned a repair service. A tradesman came to my house, took one look at the appliance, and then became quite cross with me. Nobody repaired dishwashers which were this old, he informed me, and left my house grumbling under his breath.

Feeling affronted at his tone, I decided to attempt to repair it myself. I took the appliance apart, thoroughly cleaned each element and then re-assembled it. Against the odds, it began to work again and has been going ever since. Part of me thinks that if I keep it long enough, I might be able to present it as a treasured exhibit on one of those antique trading programmes which seem to dominate daytime TV.

But, as I lie on the sofa in my living room, I think about my long-suffering wife upstairs, and her continual pleas for me to take control of the ever-growing list of repairs which need to be carried out.

I feel a sudden urge of determination and energy (I get one every three or four years) and quickly phone a friend who recommends an electrician to me. I arrange for him to come and look at our electric shower and immersion heater. Then I select a new cooker and dishwasher and order them online. I even price a new fridge and freezer.

Excited by my sudden burst of activity, I roll off the sofa in anticipation of rushing upstairs to proudly tell my wife what I have done. I turn the handle on the living room door. It breaks off in my hand.