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Pressure Point by Ruth Ainley

It can be difficult buying gifts for the man in your life but with Hubby No. 2 there was never any trouble.  No.  Anything that was the latest ‘must-have’ gadget and he was happy.  Hence, the pressure washer.

Admittedly, hubby was subtle.  Several weeks before his birthday and the Argos catalogue was left open at the appropriate page.  Four weeks before his birthday and he began to make the appropriate noises about cleaning the patio and the decking and how much easier it would be with the right equipment (my sentiments exactly but that’s another story…).  Three weeks before his birthday and every conversation would turn to pressure washers.  And suddenly, two weeks before his birthday the goalposts changed.  Yes, having studied every site on the internet regarding pressure washers, hubby now knew the exact model he required…and it wasn’t available from Argos.  No.  The necessary product could only be shipped from the Middle East, during a full moon in any month with the letter ‘Y’ in its title.  Great.

So, subtle instructions noted, I arranged for said pressure washer to arrive.  And bright and breezy one May morning, I found one boy with a new toy on the patio.  And as I began to wash the breakfast dishes, I decided to keep a discreet watch on proceedings. 

Firstly, the great beast that was the pressure washer was lifted reverentially from its box – and it soon became apparent that this was no ordinary pressure washer.  No, this was a ‘soon to be available in the UK’, industrial strength, deluxe pressure washer – for use by skilled personnel only.  Finally unpacked, hubby stood in awe of said beast for several seconds.  He then turned his attention to the accessories…

Every tool and attachment was removed from its packaging, inspected and set aside with the utmost care and respect.  Then every tool and attachment was in turn attached, removed and re-attached.  And then the pressure switch caught hubby’s eye and The Beast was connected to the pressure supply.

As soon as hubby flicked that little switch, the house began to shake.  But this was not the most unnerving occurrence.  No.  The oddity was that my two teenage stepsons appeared in the kitchen – in daylight.  Yes, awoken from their gentle slumbers by the terror of an imagined earthquake they padded into the communal living space, their sudden appearance during daylight hours destroying all my theories about bats, vampires, Dracula, et al…

Said teenagers joined their father on the patio – in the sunlight – and suddenly I had three boys with one toy.  And the eldest wasn’t for sharing.  No. The Beast was suddenly disconnected from the power supply and only available for visual appreciation.

Losing interest, the teenagers loped back to their beds pausing only briefly in the kitchen for brunch – leftover onion bhaji’s and orange juice – and, as they departed, The Beast was quietly reconnected to the power supply. 

At this point, I should have known there was going to be trouble.  Why?  Well, let’s just say that, if anyone in the surrounding area was having a late breakfast that Sunday morning, they weren’t having hot.  As the lights dipped and the washing machine ground to a halt, I dialled the electricity board’s emergency number...

Two hours later we had power – no Sunday lunch, but we had power.  Hubby rubbed his hands in glee and connected The Beast to the water supply.  And sand began to run through the taps…

But hubby was blissfully happy.  Well, he appeared blissfully happy as he waved to me through the open window as he flew past, hose in hand to land in the rockery atop a particularly unnerving garden gnome.  I smiled.  One down, ten to go... 

But as hubby staggered to his feet, staring forlornly at Arthur (yes, they all had names) he muttered darkly about water pressure.  And I began to think that things were possibly not as rosy as I had first imagined.  Suddenly, it had become a battle of wits…

Returning to The Beast – and quite early in the proceedings for hubby actually – hubby grabbed up the instruction manual.  A weighty tome, it consisted of 637 pages.  Admittedly, 590 of said pages detailed the particulars of the worldwide guarantee.  However, the remaining 47 pages contained all the necessary instructions in 47 languages. 

And the instructions?  Three pictures: the pressure button of The Beast; a dismembered finger approaching the pressure button of The Beast and, finally, said dismembered finger pressing the power button of The Beast.  Quite comprehensive really…

But hubby was a man with a mission.  No machine had ever beaten him (well, none that he cared to admit) and The Beast would soon yield…

Another half hour was spent twiddling knobs and pressing buttons.  Then the power switch was operated again – and just as hubby imagined he was in complete control, the water pressure escalated to geyser status. 

As the jet of water landed in ‘Gnome Corner’ several gnomes were lifted off their little plaster feet to ricochet off the garden fence, the greenhouse and the shed only to land, with a pleasing tinkle, upon the patio.  But, as ever, there was one rogue within the pack and as hubby wrestled the pressure washer to the ground said gnome made a particularly fine triple toe loop from the greenhouse roof, across the rockery and headed, like a heat-seeking missile, straight for hubby’s derrière... 

The nurse in A&E was very professional.  I won’t divulge the details but let’s just say rubber gloves and a lot of Vaseline were in evidence.  However, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was wondering just what sort of activity a couple from suburbia had been partaking in to render such an injury on a Sunday afternoon…

And The Beast?  Generous to a fault, hubby donated it to his favourite brother-in-law…