Vacuum Cleaners, Fleas and Men's Habits That Make Me Mad.

I was over at Paul Burman's site the other day gloating about the sudden death of a number of Paul's electrical appliances which had caused him a lot of anxiety. Alas, I should have known better - especially after my posting my blog Pride Comes Before A Fall. Yep, you've guessed it - as soon as I turned on my vacuum cleaner the blasted thing started making weird noises and emitting sulphurous odours. Yep, it kicked the bucket - good and proper!

I can't complain though about my old DCO2 (limited edition) Dyson vacuum cleaner - 12 years of sterling service. Dysons are so powerful they can even suck up up fleas! Don't ask me how I know that - I just do.  Of course, I've never had fleas in my house but I had a friend who did and she swore that a Dyson was better for rapid flea removal than any lethal potion. In fact, my friend was so good at  flea extermination she auditioned for the part of Ripley in Aliens. She didn't get the part though - some two bit actress by the name of Sigourney Weaver who had a DCO3 and a large water pistol got the job instead. Huh. Hard to imagine Sigourney Weaver saying Get away from her, you bitch better than me my friend who is exceptionally eloquent. Hmm... life can be a bitch a times....



Anyway, after the demise of my Dyson I mulled over the potential replacements. Being a philosophical soul, as you know, I came up with a few serious questions about electrical appliances in general;

1. Why do manufacturers always give products silly identification numbers? Now a DCO2 is relatively simple - but boy, some of those washing machines and DVD players' serial numbers are mind blowing! For example; I regularly see identification codes like DW121WCS28, DWE19121WD28 and WD122CWS27.  Now I don't want to state the obvious but all these long codes don't make it easy to recognise products when you're trawling though the catalogues. And have you noticed how these identification numbers always have a combination of the same letters and numbers and just when you think you found your DW121WCS28 at a bargain basement price on the net you realise it's another model because one stupid digit is wrong? Yep, this identification number process really screws me up. Why can't they simply call them  A, B, C, D, E, F ..... and so on. I mean how many models does a brand have? Come on, get real manufacturers; I don't want a degree in quantum physics just to work out your identification codes!

2. Okay, if it's not codes it names. And no, manufacturers don't have simple names like Basic, Standard and Luxury. They have names like; Featherlight Deluxe Senorita, Classic Gold Senor or Platinum Supreme Madame.

Now I don't want to sound facetious but really I couldn't give a monkey's arse about these names! And I'm intelligent enough (no spurious comments please) not to fall for the marketing ploy that wants me to believe that if I buy the Featherlight Deluxe Senorita vacuum cleaner I will suddenly become a light footed flamingo dancer swirling around my lounge with a sexy looking piece of suction equipment. Look, I know I'm bonkers but even I don't imagine myself making out with my vacuum cleaner! And well, whilst I know sometimes some more adventurous gentlemen are partial to vacuum cleaners I have absolutely no intention of sucking up to my breasts - not only do I not want breast reduction but neither do I want a conical shaped bra like Madonna.

3. Why do men always name their pieces of electrical equipment or cars? Are they bonkers?? For example Mr T calls his car "Bess." Excellent - you cannot imagine how many times I've heard how "Bess" has got Mr T through typhoons, hail storms and appalling blizzard conditions. Yeah, but what I want to know is can Bess make a beef hotpot, wash Mr T's shirts or clean the toilet?

 NO SHE ****** CAN'T!!!!!

And it's not just cars is it Ladies? Nope, every piece of machinery has a name! For example, take the tradition amongst pilots and soldiers to name their aircraft and tanks. Madness, complete madness.  Not only does the darn thing have a silly identification code like M4A1(76)W ( that's a genuine Sherman tank) but then they go and call it something daft like Matilda or Marilyn. Yep, I just love the idea of calling lethal weapons something so soft and fragrant as a woman....

Aw schucks, whata day I had! I took out two Panzer V Tiger IIs  and I was just about to go in for the kill on  a Panzer V Panther when a Limey in a MKII Matilda II pulled up alongside and nailed it in the turret! By that time the worst was over, so I climbed out and I was yelling at the Limey when we both noticed that the Krauts had called their Panzer "Helga." Man, we creased up! I ain't never laughed so much - so I went back and patted dear old Mabel. Why you'd never get me call my old girl anything as stupid as "Helga"...... 

Men. Don't you just love 'em!

Anyway, I know you're all interested to know what I'd call call my car, vacuum cleaner and a few other appliances if I named them. So here we go;

Car = The Death Trap
Vacuum Cleaner = Sucker (Possibly with the occasional slip of the tongue.)
Cooker = The Instrument of Torture (abbreviated to T. I. T.)
Washing Machine = The THING
The television = Mr T's Love Machine
My Laptop = Cupid
Vibrator = Brosnan

Oh and on a final note, here's a piccy of my late DCO2 limited edition sucker;

Umm.. I think you can tell from the colours why it was a limited edition!

And here's it's replacement; a Dyson DC19 Precision Bagless Cylinder;

It looks a bit space age doesn't it? Hey, that's okay - next time there's a dressing up day at school I'm going to strap it to Master Ben's back and send him as Buzz Aldrin.

Love letters, car crashes and tanks. (Beat that for diversity.)

While I was sorting through some of my mother’s photos and memorabilia I was delighted to find two love letters from my father written in the early fifties. They were utterly sweet and charming with little drawings scattered amongst the prose and I will always treasure them as a reminder of my parent’s love for each other.

It did lead me to think, regretfully, that I’ve never actually had a love letter from Mr T.

Humph. Big time.

Although to be fair I’ve had some really lovely thoughtful gifts. If you exclude the Sat Nav system … and the printer…..

However, I’m not complaining as the printer has proved exceptionally useful. In fact I’m now pretty skilled at producing counterfeit twenty pound notes, duplicating letters to harass supermarkets so I get free vouchers for prepackaged meals and scanning copyright piccys of Pierce so I can sell them in the school playground. I’m also planning to use the printer for photocopying my arse for this year’s Christmas cards. That is after I’ve found my way from the kitchen to my study with the Sat Nav….

By the way; I’m offering a prize of a piccy of my photocopied derriere (with suitably placed tinsel) to anyone who can think of an appropriate Christmassy caption….

Anyway, I have actually had some love letters; Mrs T has not been totally barren in the soppy stuff department! Indeed a previous boyfriend once sent me quite a few love letters but regrettably they somehow encountered a small amount of petroleum, a matchstick and a large pile of wood. (Fortunately, my ex boyfriend wasn’t called Guy.)

I bet Guy Richie was a little worried on November 5th though; I hear Madonna can be a little explosive. Well what women wouldn’t be when wearing costumes with thongs that grip your arse like a vice? Guaranteed belly trouble if you ask me.

I am hoping (well praying on my knees whilst wearing a sack cloth and a rosary around my neck) that my old boyfriend burnt my reciprocal letters because I categorically DO NOT want those turning up when I become a multi million pound novelist, reality TV star and the latest Bond heroine. (Career immediately over obviously.) It’s not that the letters were raunchy (I went to a Catholic school; give me some slack please) but you know some things should always remain private. Personally I can’t stand those kiss and tell types who make the front page of our tabloids over here; they should be shot.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit heavy handed. Just burnt at the stake perhaps? (Wearing a Lycra support thong for good measure.)

And I just like to point out that being an intellectual snob I only read The Times and The Telegraph where such sordid goings on are not reported unless they involve politicians, sheep or a large tub of L’Oreal Vita Face Lift for Men - in which case such reporting is not only newsworthy but essential in the interests of freedom and democracy. (And my celebrity scrapbook.) However, I admit, I do occasionally pick up an edition of The Mail when I need my fix of right wing fascism or for a glance at Thursday's “Femail” section where I can read all about the latest developments in skincare, face lifts and faddish diets. Always useful for a woman of my age.

Well useful for fitting nicely into the cat litter tray anyway.

Okay so I haven’t had any love letters from Mr T but he HAS lovingly passed to me some other letters.

From our car insurers.

Yes, just in case you didn’t pick it up from my previous post I may possibly have had another “incident.” But let me assure you it has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with reversing.

And everything to do with going forwards.

Yep, it was my fault. Well.....begrudgingly…. It was my fault…..

Okay, so I was behind a car at a junction for a busy A road (60mph limit over here) and there was plenty of room for the car in front to pull out. When I say “plenty of room” I mean there was enough room for a convoy of armoured vehicles, a brass band, a procession of baton twirling youths and a blind dog. Anyway the other car started to move forwards so I thought I would go too…

Only the driver in front bottled it, braked suddenly and came to a halt... and as I was busy focusing on the EMPTY road I drove straight into it…..

Yep, it was my fault. Fortunately no one was hurt. Another lesson learnt for Mrs T;

Give up driving and get a taxi.

I had another hair raising driving experience recently. After my mother’s funeral I decided to take a detour to her childhood home to relive the days of my youth and soak in the memories. Now my mother’s family home, was situated on the brow of a hill. To access it you had to drive up a long narrow (only a car’s width) lane which on one side had a steep embankment with I guess a 12/15 foot drop and a row of cottages on the other. The house was situated at the end of the lane with a terrific view across the valley. Here’s a little sketch so you get the idea;


Driving up the lane I was reminded of one of my mother’s favourite little stories from the war. On one occasion an American tank took the wrong turning and mistakenly drove right up to the house. Apparently the GIs then spent hours manoeuvring the tank slowly, inch by inch, into a position where they could get back down the lane again. While the GIs agonised over their precarious position my grandmother supplied them with copious amounts of tea and cakes and as a result was rewarded for her hospitality with a pair of silk stockings!

Anyway, memories aside, I’m driving up the lane and I’m beginning to feel edgy looking down on the valley and thinking that maybe this trip wasn’t such a good idea…but then I remember the tank incident and think that if a tank can do it then so can I……

Only when I reach the end there’s a car parked outside the double garage. The turning space is halved.

My immediate thought was;

OH SHIT.

Instantaneously I break out in sweat; I am drenched in it. There is hardly any room to manoeuvre at all. And remember, I am the woman who has 3 accidents this year; 2 of them involving reversing! As panic sets in I envisage myself;

a) Hanging of the cliff like that episode in The Italian Job
b) Dead
c) Trying to explain the lack of a car to Mr T.
d) Being burnt at the stake.

Okay, I’m here. So I managed to do it. But not without a lot of expletives, some dubious clutch control and some really, really serious praying.

Oh yes, and a pair of brown trousers.

Copyright Jane Turley 2008