MY life has been turned upside down and around.
I've said it. How, how on earth, have I lasted until this vintage without fully knowing the joys, the exquisite ecstasy of hoovering?
I have bought my first hoover. Besides my flat, car, laptop and a truly ill advised purchase of art from a street vendor in Rome, it is the most expensive thing I have purchased. I read about it, recommended highly as a superior and multi-functioning model, towards the back of a women's magazine and its ownership has consumed me. I now hoover constantly. Why did no one sit me down sooner and explain these pleasures, woman to woman? I have been let down.
Now I hoover my floors; we waltz lightly from skirting to skirting. I hoover the sofa. The table tops too are hoovered, ditto bookshelves, cupboards, the bath mat and mattress.
I have hoovered the toast crumbs from the toaster and off the chopping board. Its various attachments bring various pleasures: suction, brushing, whisking, slotting.
Using its variety of smart nozzles I have reached that bit between the counter underbelly and the washing machine top. Also, inside lamps and around light fittings. Window sills, frames and ledges have all been hoovered. The glass has been lightly caressed.
From the side of the oven I have hoovered a pea stuck shrivelling since 2011. Hoovering the shower curtain was slightly less a success.
I started hoovering visitors until the visitors stopped coming. Now I hoover their shoes in the hallway where I insist footwear is discarded, despite having never previously cared.
Soon I plan to christen my car but need to wait for the delivery of an extension chord.
I can see the results of my labours inside the hoover's clear plastic cylinder, a satisfyingly inelegant mound of disgust. There is cause and instant effect. I love it, dust mites and all. Even the sound, that elongated oo, is pleasure.
There being too few hours of daylight I hoovered frequently at night but my nocturnal movements had to stop when the neighbours began banging through their floor. I am more furtive with my hoovering now, which makes it oddly more satisfying.
Should I ever have the luxury of a deathbed scene I am sure I will not look back and wish I had spent more time ironing, or maintaining my dishes but I will rue every moment not spent gliding as one with this monster of suction.
All these years with a dustpan and shovel, all these years.
Oh, 21st century, aren't you marvellous? What other treats might lie in store?
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