My step-by-step guide to a happier life? Never read the bloody instructions

Opinion

February 29, 2024 — 4.30pm

“Hmm,” the repairman said, squinting into my washing machine. “How often do you clean the drum?”

“I have to clean the drum?” I replied. “I didn’t know that.”

Did you read the manual? A Samsung Bespoke AI washing machine at a trade fair in Berlin. Credit: Krisztian Bocsi/Bloomberg

He turned to face me, sighed deeply, and shook his head. “Did you read the manual?” he asked.

I did read the manual; at least, I held it in my hands. I flicked through it, and saw that it was made of lots of words, including “draining heights” and “maintenance flap” and “lightly soiled”. And then I tossed the manual into my third drawer, or the “manual drawer”, as it is reverently known, and never spoke or thought of it again.

I am deeply averse to manuals, or, indeed, instructions of any kind. I would rather spend three to six months figuring out how to use an appliance through trial and error than sit down with a manual and read it cover to cover.

I once sat in my car for 40 minutes randomly pressing buttons trying to change the time on the clock for daylight saving; when I finally succeeded, I felt as proud as if I’d assembled the entire vehicle.

I could have read the manual, but who has the patience to do that? Manuals are uninviting, to say the least, and repellent, to say the truth.

A cursory browse through my manual drawer turned up an instruction booklet the size of a novella for a simple coffee machine; it took 135 pages in 13 languages to say “fill it with water and coffee and press the button”.

Another manual for a sound system was written in font so tiny I ran to find my reading glasses, until I realised I was already wearing my glasses, and I still couldn’t read the bloody thing. A third, for an air-conditioning unit, contained the phrase “PMV control”, and if I have to plough through acronyms just to get some cool air, then thank you very much, I’ll stay hot.

Then there are the manuals from products I may or may not have purchased from slightly shonky websites overseas. I am not criticising the writers; I mean, my own second-language skills are pretty merde, but lines like “Attentions before Using!” and “Up turn power volume” don’t exactly fill me with confidence that they will be worth the read.

What to do with an expired washing machine? Your dog may need a kennel.Credit: The Sydney Morning Herald

Obviously, the answer is word-free manuals, but even these can be problematic. Have you ever tried to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture? Their “instructions” are cartoon people in various stages of motion, looking cheerful (do this!), looking alarmed (this is wrong!), or being crushed by falling furniture (call triple-zero!)

The cartoons look simple, yet they are deceptively hurtful. But when the instructions are in picture form and I still can’t follow them, which I can’t, because the Allen keys are depicted as airborne and the pop-out boxes confuse me and, honestly, all the screws look the same, I feel humiliated and ashamed.

Happily, I rarely need to assemble furniture these days, and when I do, I outsource it to my children. And my aversion to manuals has barely affected me at all. Most appliances are pretty simple, when you just use the basics. I’ve been using my air fryer for months now on the default setting, and it fries up my food just fine. I’ve been using my microwave for years without ever touching most of the buttons, and my meals always come out appropriately hot. And while I never cleaned the drum of my washing machine, this was never an issue until Judgy Repair Dude came along.

I am aware, of course, that many people have feelings about those of us who choose not to read the manuals. My partner, a dedicated reader of technical booklets, is forever pointing out things “you would know, if you just read the instructions”. And Reddit is full of people responding “RTFM” to people who politely ask questions about appliances. It means “Read The F—ing Manual”. Did I mention I really hate acronyms? (And initialisms, too, for the benefit of any pedants who’ve read the manual on the definition of an acronym.)

Still, despite the judgment and condemnation, I have been vindicated. The demise of my washing machine had nothing whatsoever to do with me not cleaning the drum. Turns out the bearings had eroded through normal wear and tear. What a relief!

My appliance lived a long life and it died of old age. And I never once read the f—ing manual.

Kerri Sackville is an author, columnist and mother of three. Her latest book is The Secret Life of You: How a bit of alone time can change your life, relationships and maybe the world.

Get a weekly wrap of views that will challenge, champion and inform your own. Sign up for our Opinion newsletter.