Dyson - With Death!

Life sucks - you don't! Goodbye.


We've had a death in the family.
Yup, Pither has ridden the crest of the New Year effortlessly and set sail into 2008 exactly as he navigated 2007 - leaking below the waterline and in danger of going down with all hands!
The vacuum cleaner is irrevocably fucked! I use the words "irrevocably fucked" because those were the ones used today by the technical geniuses in my local vacuum cleaner repair shop.

It is true to say that the vacuum - a Dyson (but that's the last plug he's getting!) - and I have endured a rocky relationship during our six years together but, like an Essex girl and herpes, we have got used to one another's company.
She (a man could never suck with such power or expertise) was initially
pronounced "fucked" by Martin Bormann "I Can Fix It" Comedy Repairs Ltd back in 2003 when her drivebelt snapped. During a search for her guarantee, however, I discovered replacement drivebelts in the box in which she came, fitted one with ease, and so all was well with the world again.

Her belts subsequently snapped as regularly as does the elastic on Jodie Marsh's knickers but because of my new-found mechanical prowess I was always able to get her back on the road - well, the carpet, at any rate. Then, three years ago, just as her extended guarantee became as valid as Benazir Bhutto's bus pass, her main hose tore free from her body (the vacuum cleaner's - not Mrs Bhutto's). The cranial vacuum in a fawn overall at THE shop promptly declared her "really fucked" and so, in desperation, I rang the manufacturer. It turned out that, once again, all was not lost and at a cost of a mere 80 of our earth pounds she was sent for a full MoT, which included the fitting of a new hose. Hurrah!

We were never in luck for long, however, and tragedy struck again last year when one of her wheels fell off. In the business, according to Messrs Bormann and associates at least, that is known as being "completely fucked". Another call to the maker's, however, led to her being sent away for an undercarriage replacement which, at a cost of another £80, pulled her back from the brink and enabled her to trundle on again happily.

Mrs Pither did point out on the last occasion that, while the cleaner was again fully functional, it warranted an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records as the world's most costly domestic device! I am, however, a fierce opponent of the throw-away society and will not give up on anything until I can actually see it weeping blood and hear its screams for eternal rest (ref. Pither's marriage, Chapter 28).
That moment came for my beloved vacuum at about 11am today. With four dogs, Pither Towers needs only one day without vacuuming to resemble the contents of an Italian woman's pants in the 1970s and, after a suspension of domestic chores over the festive holiday, the old place was looking distinctly hirsute.
I fired up old faithful in the dining room and had only managed about two sweeps across the carpet when there was a loud "FIZZ, CRACKLE, CRACKLE, SHHHHH, VOOOSHH, CRACKLE!" The power died and then there was an awful, acrid, burning oil smell and I looked down to see thick, black smoke pouring from the back of the machine. I instantly knew what it meant. I even envisaged tiny little people running up to the brushes end, screaming, and diving off into the shag pile as an equally tiny band of musicians sat stoically in deckchairs at the other end playing Abide With Me.
I waddled round to Bormann Brothers at lunchtime to be given the technical diagnosis and then, by way of my need for a second opinion, I rang the manufacturer. Both pronouncements were the same:
"Yeah, that's irrevocably fucked, mate!"

So, I have finally admitted defeat and THE vacuum cleaner is no more. Unfortunately, these paltry words are the only room for sentiment in a house which is in dire need of a comb-over, let alone vacuuming, and so, as soon as the smoke had cleared, Mrs Pither went forthwith to The Big Shop Which Sells Everything this afternoon to buy a new model.
Mrs P had set her heart on a particular model, the selling point of which was that it was apparently specially designed to cope with pet hairs! Hmmm, we shall see. Anyway, there were none in stock when she went so she has ordered one and it is due on Monday. I am looking forward immensely to the arrival of this latest sucker to inhabit The Towers - in fact, it will be the 126th most exciting thing which has ever happened to me.
Anyway, here's to absent friends. Defiance of the throw-away society shall not go to Grantham.