Saturday, July 12, 2008

Ode To The Dyson

You know how they say that the people you love are like electricity, you realise they are important when you don't have them anymore? It doesn't work with people for me, it works with my most loyal and beloved piece of equipment I own. The Dyson.

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.


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.


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.


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.
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