It had been ponging up the place for a couple of days already, despite a good filter clean and an internal wipe down. I went to bed alarmed last night, very much like I do when a pet is not well. My first thought this morning was to call the Dyson A&E who asked a couple of questions and indicated that a Dyson GP may need to pay us a visit. I still hung on, sort of in denial, hoping that it may just be a dead leaf caught up in its throat. And so I persisted and re-plugged it in later until it almost choked to death, vomited soot and stunk up the place to high heaven. I rolled it away, and I am now expecting the GP on Tuesday. Meanwhile, troubled that it may be something much more serious than a passing flu, I penned my Ode To The Dyson.
1
Item of dusts and mellow hairyness
Close bosomed-fiend of the dusting wretch;
Conspiring with pets how to fill and mess
With hairs the walls that round the squared ranch;
To suck with strength the floored-stress
And discard all trash with clicks of core;
To swell the cylinder, and fill the filter
With the sour pong; to set filling more,
And still to so bored, later whirrs for all the rooms
Until they think dirty days will loom
For Steph has o'er-brimmed thy filthy kilter.
2
Who hath not bought thee oft amid the store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting upright on laminated floors,
Thy cable tight-wound by the untrained kind;
Or on a half-ripped bag sound-filled
Drowsed with the fumes of the bathrooms, while they hook
Spares the next wrath and all its screaming puffs
And sometimes like a cleaner thou dost riled
Steady by laden handle across thy nook;
Or by a cylinder-suck, with patient instruction book,
Thou functionest the last oozings swipe by swipe.
3
Where is the Hoover? Aye, where is it?
Think not of it; thou hast thy whirring too-
While barred fluffs mar soft-drying rugs,
And touch the stubbed-legs with carpet goo;
Then in a waiful romp the small rats squeak
Among the floorboad creaks, borne aloft
Or sucked in as the button presses and de-press;
And full-grown kids loud sigh from teak;
Hedge hair sinks; and now with treble soft
The reddened plug from a converted loft;
And running spiders gasp in thy chest.
