Now then. A few days ago, Jess over at Rusty Duck mentioned she was having vacuum trouble (of the cleaner type - not of the vacant brain/ thermos flask/ airlock in a space-ship type) and I happened to comment that whatever brand she went for, it was of my very wise opinion that she should avoid Dyson because my own experience of them was poor and once resulted in a minor, but nonethelss spectacular, explosion.
This was in the pre-Andy days. I moved onto a Phillips after the Dyson kerbang! Mostly because it was a nice shade of blue. And then Andy arrived from Liverpool dragging his own (luminous green) Dyson with him which I promptly consigned to the attic because I wasn't having another exploding vacuum incident, no way, no thank you VERY much.
Well, after several years of faithful service, the Phillips duly expired and Andy retrieved (with a certain amount of joy, I hasten to add) his Dyson from the attic and I've been shoving the darn thing around for the last 3 years or so. Honestly, it's been like heaving a stubborn carthorse around the house and I made several surreptitious attempts to murder the it but every time I thought I'd succeeded, Andy would come tripping along with his screwdriver and surgeon's hands and repair it. I'd smile, of course, being a dutiful and grateful lady wife, but I'd give it a good kick when he wasn't looking. I'd also feed it nails, bits of wood, Lego, brick rubble, dressing gown cords and plug cables, but to no ill-effect.
Well, the day after my comment to Jess, what do you know? The Dyson blew up and died for good! No, really...there was a substantial 'POP!!' and real smoke speweth forth. I had clearly upset the God of Domestic Appliances by dissing the Dyson.
'I think I've killed the Dyson,' I said to Andy, and yea verily, this time 'twas true! He tinkered about with it and declared it dead. And he is a vet, so knows about these things.
Within an hour I'd been to Argos and purchased a relacement. No hanging about doing research. Oh no! I gave myself ten minutes of selection process time, narrowed it down to a choice of two, flipped a coin, reserved it on-line, hopped in the motor car, zipped across town and we now have a Hoover Hurricane, no less, which is half the weight of the old Dyson, is good for dealing with pet hair and does the job admirably. Just be careful though - you can't mess with the God of Domestic Appliances - there will be explosions.
My other minor warning concerns aubergines. Two weeks ago I slung a whole packet of aubergine seeds into a seed tray, thinking there was no way they'd all come up and now I have 87 aubergine seedlings. 87! They are almost ready to plant on. I keep staring at them, sitting all cosy in their tray and looking decidedly smug, and then I keep staring at our garden thinking, 'Is there room for 87 aubergine plants out there? And the tomatoes? And the courgettes?' Because the devil in me wants to actually see if I can manage 87 aubergine plants. Oh yes, indeedy-do. Think of all those aubergines! If I can get even 3 per plant, that's, well...261 aubergines! And the going rate for an aubergine is, depending where you shop, between 50p and a £1 which means a profit of between £130 and £260ish, give or take the cost of the seeds, a bit of compost and water (because we are on a water meter, but we also have a water butt). And an added bonus is that I actually like aubergine! Watch this space...
Right, I'm off now - Gardener's World is about to start and I am rather fond of Monty Don. If there's a God of Aubergine, then I might get a useful message across the airwaves about managing 87 of them!