There's no sign of what he used to affix it so firmly to my kitchen ... no evidence of screws or bolts or ropes or chains. I'm guessing maybe concrete.
Although, having sat on a tube of superglue once, I wouldn't rule that stuff out. It's pretty hard to budge.
The half-functioning machine is the second dishwasher to have graced my kitchen and while this one has gone bung with very little excuse, the first one was made of far sterner stuff.
It was long-awaited, that first dishwasher. It wasn't until the kids were well into primary school that we indulged ourselves.
The final catalyst was a kitchen flood, caused by the fact the window above the kitchen sink looked out over the paddock.
I was filling the sink to do the dishes when I spotted a stray dog chasing my sheep. I flung on my gumboots and stormed to the rescue, returning some time later to find the kitchen lino floating out the back door to meet me.
It seemed a good time to make some home improvements.
I got a shiny new dishwasher and at the same time hubby got an equally shiny new chainsaw.
It was heaven.
Instead of the slosh and clink and grumble of me doing the dishes by hand, there was the gentle hum of a dishwasher, dishwashing.
Hubby was equally enamoured of his chainsaw, using it for work all week and then spending a quite ridiculous amount of time cleaning it every weekend.
He was actually cleaning bits of it in the kitchen sink one Saturday morning when I went out into the garden.
That's where I was, peacefully pottering, when I heard the explosion.
It came from the house.
It's not often I'm speechless.
I dashed in through the back door just in time to see my husband wrench open the dishwasher door and flames shoot out, as he grabbed for a large piece of equipment that looked suspiciously like....
"My chainsaw!" he yelled, just before he fled past me bearing a still blazing Husqvarna which he promptly rolled on the lawn to put it out.
"My dishwasher!" I cried, as I took in the scene in front of me. Petrol-fumes, smoke and steam were rising from the open dishwasher door. The kitchen curtains were scorched and the bench top was cracked. One cupboard door hung askew.
"What were you thinking?" I wailed.
"I was trying to save some time," he explained.
Just then the microwave dinged.
I opened the door to reveal a gently steaming air filter.
"I was drying it..."
It's not often I'm speechless.
After a cooling-off period and some fresh fuel, the chainsaw started again first pop. The dishwasher was not quite so lucky. Yes, it started again, often all by itself, running through a rinse cycle or two before turning itself off again.
Even so, it was a couple of weeks before it stopped coating the dishes with a thin film of two-stroke.
It wasn't until months later that the door fell off.
The man who came to repair it said he was very puzzled as to why the rubber seals were charred. I told him it had puzzled me, too.
The chainsaw still goes, but it is no longer welcome in the house.
That dishwasher lasted at least another 10 years after the chainsaw massacre, which gives me an idea.
Maybe the chainsaw would be a good option for releasing the current dishwasher from its entrapment in my kitchen...
Or maybe just the sight of it and a couple of quiet revs would give the current model the inspiration it needs to start working again?
