Forty Shades of Hoover

Hoovering can be such a joy can`t it…

the massive satisfaction of banishing all those horrid little Bits from your floor, the relief that comes when the job`s skilfully done and dusted.

Sometimes, though, you`re just not in the mood – it`s those same old sarnie crumbs in front of the TV and all that flaming cat detritus – his fur, toenails, litter scattered in frenzied post-wee tidying, the odd hanger-on from his garden patrol…

(That one was a Tardigrade, by the way, and HermanCat was quite attached to it for some time.  Mercifully they`re less than 1mm long).
(the ones in captivity).

Anyway, you start on your usual boring old route – living room, kitchen, haul it up the stairs, bedrooms... and all the time that droooone is driving you mad!

Then to cap it all, your vac explodes.

I suppose after twenty years I should have guessed something was wrong… I mean, suddenly it seemed like it was hardly grazing some areas, and the engine had begun to moan like a bull with a headache.

This vac was telling us it had drudged enough - we needed something New.

Friends suggested seeking expert advice from a man who knows, so we set off for Hoovers-R-Us - we were so glad we did!

All those tantalising choices… upright, cylinder, turbocyclonehandstickmotioncompactsensorsyncairborneforce bagless, cordless, noiseless, pushless...  

After a session of unrestrained experimenting we went for a slim, light pole of a device with several accoutrements to handle every area you could think of – vaccing like we`d never dreamed of!

"And would you like an outfit with that?" said the man brightly, "You don`t want to get your ordinary clothes messed up with household chores!"  

"How could this be a chore!" I giggled over-excitedly as he led us to the display. His selection was huge.

What more can I say other than we are very satisfied with our purchase.

So we couldn`t leave the cat out:

(definitely recommend Muting this hoover)

Barry Bucknell Rides Again

‘So where does this one go?’ brandishes George.

‘According to the writing on the back,’ I suggest, (ignoring disparaging comments on people's writing), ‘It goes bnd d drs tds g.’

Clearly, it's destined for... Behind my set of drawers nearest garden end wall. Unfortunately, George has banged another skirting board back in that position - no wonder it was a tight squeeze…

Barry Bucknell would be proud, though. Not only have we painted the bedroom, but also removed skirting boards, and are now tackling their post-new-carpet replacement. George has even managed to hide wires behind these skirtings! Not bad, considering the height of our DIY before moving to France was plug-changing and car-washing.

Here, of necessity, George has: put in light fittings (the only thing left on change of ownership in France is an occasional bulb on a grotty wire), fixed curtain rails, installed new sinks, laid tiled floors… his accomplishments are manifold and staggering. (Well - I paint...). And I’m proud.

Surely the first DIY puzzlings of people our age were stimulated in infancy, when the beaming Barry Bucknell would explain how to Make Things and Then Stick Nails In Them.

http://www.whirligig-tv.co.uk/tv/adults/bucknell/bucknell.htm

(Please Do click on the picture in this link for cacophonous 10-second video of him saying Goodbye)!

For George and I, DIY is still puzzling, and something we enjoy when it’s finished.

Our painting project this time, however, was unusually fun-filled owing to imminent exchange of festering old carpet for new one. What Joy Unbounded to splosh paint around with complete disregard for the floor! (One’s joy was a bit too unbounded near the shelving, but a quick blast of nail varnish remover did the trick).

The Man came last Tuesday to fit the replacement carpet (professional job seemed sensible here), and asked with a smirk if we’d like to keep the old one. No thank you. Lord knows what lurked therein – it was in place when we arrived nine years ago and aeons before, judging from the multi-hued indelible splodges. If he could have picked it up between finger and thumb, I’m sure he would have.

Of course, paramount in DIY is the restoring to original order once the Doing is done. Hence, since Tuesday, we’ve been engaged in the reinstatement of bed, drawers, boxes, linen, clothes, shoes and tons of other bedroom bits...

Slight discord here – I’m happy to restore to the original Open-Door-and-Chuck-in kind of order for now. Whereas George can excel at organising, and this time he has indeed excelled. Shoes have been secreted into neat slide-out boxes, towels have been folded(!) onto shelves with unfrayed parts to the fore, Things hung on hangers – Verily, this is a New bedroom!

What Delight! What a Sense of Satisfaction! And WHAT can we now Stick Nails In…?

A Dance called Madison

Come on Dolores! It’s the MADISON!!

Er, no thanks, you go ahead – I’m not keen on… No, honestly, it’s too complicated… Look, last time I tripped someone up and the whole line went with her - I really don’t want to. Oh god! – alright then!

Do YOU Madison? Or did you, like me, believe it was an American city, an avenue, a square… ?

Well, it’s SO much more! Very soon after arriving in the land of fine wines and goats cheese, we discovered that ‘Madison’ was French for Line Dance. And Never stand in the way of frenzied hordes answering the call!

I usually avoid situations where it might happen, but recently George and I went to two musical gatherings where it sneaked in. Many times.

This clip shows people engaged therein:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=95NjjrXzhak

If you take a peek, you’ll see the Lines of people merrily stepping forwards, backwards and allways with intermittent jumps and hops and turns, and all perfectly synchronised! How do they do this? Was it compulsory at school? A new vocation for gap years, perhaps?

I happen to love dancing; anything by the Stones will set me off… Salsa, Cajun, Eighties Disco or a chance to Twist again…

But the Madison (remember Achey Breaky Heart?) is surely more a sort of Chinese Water Torture by skipping. And I’m always skipping in the wrong direction. All alone…

Last time, somebody very kindly took pity on my flailings and ran all the way from the other end of the line to instruct me step by step. A wonderful woman.

Of course I’d forgotten everything by the next Madison, and fell over in the general agitation. Cunningly I lay still, hoping to be stretchered off. Nobody noticed. And George was engrossed in playing accordeon. (Actually, would it be quicker for me to learn that than the Madison…)

Later, as I peered out from under a table at more lines of flittering feet, Wonderful-Woman’s head suddenly dipped down in front of mine and beamed, “I’m going to explain the Secret of Madison: It’s always exactly the same steps!”

Wow - So that's it! She then wrote these steps down on a napkin (which had evidently been made good use of during the tiramasu earlier):

Step left forward; Place right beside left (no weight) & clap; Step back on right; Move left foot back & across the right; Move left foot to the left; Move left foot back & across the right.

Well, that doesn't seem too hard... I took these precious lines home to study, and practised and practised until it became for me, too, a thing of Wonder, that I even pondered Youtubing to.


Did I hell! It's bloody Impossible!