Skip to main content

Bad Hoover



When Girl was a tiny blonde thing, she would push the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner along the carpet and say ‘hoove, hoove, hoove,’ until the game of housework was trumped by a walk to the beach. Entertaining.
I have spent time without a vacuum cleaner, as I have lived without most appliances at some point. Unintentional yet educational: time spent sweeping carpets, thrashing rugs, boiling a pan for a cup of tea, cooking on an open fire, cooking in a woodburner, treading washing in the bath, making shadow puppet improvisations. (The washing machine, the internet and a hoover, if we must live with carpets, are the things I choose to keep most. In that order.)
Yesterday, after viewing the front room carpet, I trundled our hoover out. It is a small machine and for reasons of compactness the hose attaches to the body of it at a 90 degree angle. This bend gets blocked. To unblock, brave fingers must venture in, unsighted, and seize a clump of, hopefully, Dog hair. Yes, disgusting. I perform this procedure outdoors, sat on the doorstep, flailing a hose over the bin. Yes, it is mostly Dog hair. Also there’s that bit of courgette I dropped whilst piling the slow cooker (good machine) with veg and meat. Which is when it occurs to me that there’s something healthy about being close to dirt. One feels more connected, more responsible, more appreciative. I have revolting dust on my nose and one day, maybe, I will have a better machine: meanwhile this bad hoover helps me bond with my home. 



Comments

Geo. said…
Delightful post! We have mixed feelings about Hoover here too but usually in connection with our 31st president.
1 September 2012 at 05:14
Suze said…
I am glad you have the Internet. I would be poorer for not having read your words.

Sending you my love across the sea.
1 September 2012 at 14:00
Susan Flett Swiderski said…
What a precious memory of your daughter "hooving" when she was a little thing. Made me smile, and think of how my own kids thought it was great fun to help me around the house when they were little. Of course, that opinion changed considerable when they hit the teenage years.
1 September 2012 at 18:41
Lisa Southard said…
Geo- I pressed publish on this post before I remembered that Hoover is not just a domestic appliance- this dirt digging is literal not political- hope no-one's disappointed!
Suze- well travelled love received :-)
Susan- indeed the teenage years were not much use around the house- still kept the amusement levels up though!
1 September 2012 at 20:34
Stephanie V said…
And you're also healthier for having connected with the dirt. My mother would have said we kids were building up our immune systems. Being a reluctant housekeeper, I agree with that philosophy.


I, too, have lived without appliances. Hoovers are handy helpers.
2 September 2012 at 19:02
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...
2 comments
Read more

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...
26 comments
Read more

A Glitch Or Two

My Chromebook has been crumbling. It seems a little like dementia, this inability to upgrade its powers of communication, it makes me sad, even for an object. It's one of the reasons my posts here have been put aside, that and generally being tumbled by tiredness. I have saved up money for a replacement, also I have spent that money on trees and shrubs. I have two novels to sort out however, and this will be the reason I save up again. I don't stop writing, even if I don't tell anyone. In the meantime should you need a calm place to go, I have begun a substack account. Please do drop by. If the kettle crumbles we can make tea (or soup) on the firepit. Me on substack:  Lisa Southard
Post a Comment
Read more