I am keenly aware that posterity will judge me on the cleanliness of my floors. That judgement was destined to be unkind until Móna, enviably closer than I am to the cutting edge of advances in the area of home appliances, recently mentioned the Dyson Slim.
|the dear, dear Dyson Slim|
Day and night I have wielded it since it was delivered. Day and night, until the charge runs out or I have finally vacummed up every grain of invading sand.
I smiled as I read the sentences in Experience, Martin Amis' memoir, in which he says of his mother, Hilary Bardwell, later Lady Kilmarnock:
There were many reasons why my mother loved living in Spain, not least of them being that you could, in most pharmacies, buy speed over the counter. After a while the stuff she liked was declared prescription-only; so she had to put on ten layers of clothing and go to the hospital and pretend to be suffering from obesity (a routine business in winter, but not so easy during the African heat of July and August). She regarded the drug mainly as a labour-saving device. You could always tell when Mum had scored because the house suddenly became the scene of large-scale cleansings and re-orderings. You would see her going from room to room, singing, with a sofa under one arm and a sideboard under the other.
It is good to know that I am not alone, that Martin Amis' mother also experienced the matchless euphoria of moving a lamp-table from one side of a sofa to another or seeing how the big red jug might look on a lower shelf. I think of her as I vacuum.