November 16, 2000. We had our new dishwasher installed today. Our house is old, and we inherited functional but unlovely appliances (like the refrigerator with no shelves or drawers). The dishwasher seemed sullen and slow to learn its job; I took to washing the dishes before I loaded them so it would get a better idea of what it was expected to do, but this proved fruitless. With this new acquisition, I look forward to no more suspect grit in the bottom of drinking glasses, less sludgy backflow from the disposal, and speaking below a bellow when it's running.
The installer showed up alone on a cold, blustery afternoon. He had a British-sounding accent (Australian, it turned out) and set straight to work removing the old machine. I watched for a bit, then went back to what I was doing when it looked like he might be awhile. After about 20 minutes I wandered back to the kitchen and found him still trying to extricate the beast. He pointed out that the disposal isn't supposed to empty into the dishwasher and reached for a small crowbar. I hastened back to my work. When I came back after another good interval, he was outside, and the old dishwasher had vanished. I swept out the treasures lost beneath and behind by previous residents (bottlecaps, pens, a hand mirror, ant traps) and sneaked a look at his clipboard.
From what I read, I gathered he'd been having a rough time of it, so I made sure to thank him for his trouble and offer him a cup of tea. He was as taciturn as old Saint Nick in the poem, and a good deal less jolly right then, but I noticed later that he did help himself to the tea.
Here's the detail. I think he took the Comments section of the form quite literally.
And yes, thank you, the new diswasher is working just fine.