We've owned two mid-range vacuum cleaners over the past ten years or so. The motors on both died, leaving nasty guilt-provoking plastic skeletons behind to be disposed of. While I'm on a campaign to rid our house, at least the living area of it, of carpet, it's a slow campaign, and in the meantime there's no doubt that as a family we are extremely needful of a vacuum cleaner. Extremely needful indeed. And so when our Bissel died two days after Christmas, we started dreaming of purchasing a unit that would be the last vacuum cleaner we'd ever buy. One that would endure until we were hauled off to the nursing home. One that our children would quarrel over when dividing up their inheritance.
While I was off in Calgary, my mom came to my house and brought her vacuum cleaner. Do the math... it had been thirty long days of heavy-duty debris-generating living that had happened since the last time we vacuumed. I expect there was a good fifty pounds of stuff she sucked up. It was a mercy-cleaning, bless her.
But while in Calgary I had gulped, pulled out my credit card, and in one swift transaction, got us a Dyson. A lovely copper-coloured DC-14 with Root Cyclone Technology. I confess I was at first heartbroken to see the clean carpets that greeted me on my return. But then I came to my senses. This was a gift -- the clutter had all been picked up and put away to facilitate vacuuming, and now I could take the opportunity to engage in some smug Dyson-driven one-up-man-ship. I ran my new machine in a cursory way over the centre of the very floor my mom had painstakingly vacuumed the day before.
And look what it came up with. A good half pound of deep-down disgustingness. Now I get what annika fox was talking about ... the all-consuming thrill of subjecting accumulated disgustingness to patented cyclonic technology. In general I'm not much interested in cleanliness or home-making, but this ... there's an allure here, I confess.