2025, So Far

It’s insidious how we unknowingly compensate for infirmities. We think we’re doing all we used to, but gradually we start expecting less—lighter loads, increasingly infrequent activity, reluctance to be left alone lest something unexpected happens. And that’s what happened to our clothes dryer.

It wasn’t that old—we bought it after we had the kitchen renovated just six years ago—so the groans and moans, and occasional alarming smell, took us by surprise, and soon we were reluctant to leave the house with it running. Then, one day, it noisily ground to a halt, and we had to buy a new one.

Totally unrelated to this, two years ago, we replaced the carpet in our (rented) flat, at our own expense, thank you very much. We are extremely pleased with it, and really didn’t mind paying for it ourselves because, while it is the landlord’s property, it is our home. Plus, he’s been very good about allowing us to renovate. And so, the carpet went in, all lovely-jubbly and looking grand.

Then last Sunday my wife dropped a hot iron on it.

We’ve been married almost twenty-three years. During that time, we have both (I’m keen to point out) done our fair share of ironing with no mishaps. Now, mistakes happen—no harm, no foul—but why couldn’t it have happened on the old carpet instead of the new one?

No sense crying over singed nylon, however, so we were left with these options:

• Learn to live with it, or
• Pay to have a new carpet installed

My wife was not keen on Option One, and pointed out that Option Two was unnecessary because we could claim it on our insurance, something that would never have occurred to me. And so, I soon found myself explaining to an insurance adjuster exactly what had happened. I was so hoping he would leave the questions open-ended enough (as in, “How did the burn mark get on the carpet?”) to allow me to say, “I was free-basing and dropped the spoon.”

As it was, the only opportunity to wedge in some sarcasm came after he had ascertained that my wife was responsible for an iron burn on the carpet, and asked, “How did the iron burn get on the carpet?” which gave me the opportunity to reply, “My wife noticed the carpet was a bit wrinkled, so she tried to iron it out. How do you think the iron burn got there? She dropped it!” Okay, maybe I only said the final three words, but at least I got a little satisfaction.

Roll a few days forward to when Colin the Insurance Investigator came to visit. He was a jovial and effusive gentleman, who explained that my claim had sent up a red flag, and that this was the reason for his visit.

“Spilled nail polish and iron burns are the most common fraud claims,” he told me. “Plus, you have a foreign accent.”

Fortunately, it’s an American accent (through for the foreseeable future I am telling everyone I am Canadian), and the carpet is only two years old, making it obvious to Colin that I was not attempting to defraud the insurance company, leaving him free to entertain me with quips and vignettes about his adventures in insurance investigations.

“I once had a family attempt to claim for all the carpets in their house,” he told me. “They spilled paint in the living room, then had their toddler walk through it and track it into every other room. When the paint on the child’s feet ran out in the second bedroom, they picked him up, took him to the living room, dipped his feet in the wet paint and put him back down in the bedroom.”

I took it their claim had been denied, and they had been left with painted carpets.

There were also jokes: “Why don’t retired Brighton players …” (because I’d told him my brother-in-law was a Brighton supporter) “… ever become chefs? Because they’re not used to lifting a cup!!”

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Apparently, that’s funny.

He also told me that water damage was the worst, prompting me to relate how our upstairs neighbour had flooded our kitchen. Twice.

“We had water running through the ceiling,” I told him. “And when I went upstairs, I found the lady sitting in her living room, totally unaware that the kitchen sink was overflowing. And after we cleaned it up and I repainted the ceiling, she did it again.”

We had a good laugh over that, then I bid him good-bye, and my day went back to normal.

And water began dripping through the kitchen ceiling.

And yesterday, the washing machine, quite dramatically, went on the fritz.

Welcome to 2025.