Published at 09:41, Friday, 15 January 2010

NOW I have always been an obliging sort of bloke, especially where Mrs Hextol is concerned.

She only has to drop the obscurest of hints, and I’m off to do her bidding like a faithful bloodhound.

“Oh, I’ve left my phone upstairs,” she may exclaim wistfully, in the sure and certain knowledge that I will rush up the stairs and get it for her.

“I'll have a cup of coffee if you are making one,” she may murmur, and I will abandon the gripping last over of the South African test to place a mug of steaming Maxwell House in her soft hands in a matter of moments.

One of my regular little tasks is to carry the vacuum cleaner up and down stairs, so when I found it standing sentry duty at the top of the stairs the other day, I thought I would do my good deed for the day, and bring it down.

I should perhaps explain that after the festive excesses, I was on a bit of an economy drive at the time.

Assuming I knew the layout of the landing of the house we have lived in for 30 years reasonably well, I was saving energy by turning the lights off.

It should have therefore been something of a warning when I fell headlong over the washing basket, whilst blundering around in semi-darkness.

Mrs Hextol’s exasperated “Now what are you doing?” floated up the stairs as I was rubbing wicker rash off my elbows and replacing socks and undergarments into the slightly misshapen basket.

It was at this point that I became aware of the vacuum cleaner standing at the top of the stairs and decided to recoup some much-needed brownie points by bringing it downstairs unbidden.

Alas, in the gloaming, I must have held it by the wrong bit, because after two steps the Dyson simply disintegrated in my hands.

I was left holding the handle in horror, while the rest of the machine cartwheeled down the stairs, spewing bits of yellow, blue and grey plastic and gobbets of dust all the way.

There was an appalled silence as the dust settled before the living room door burst open and an angry Mrs Hextol thrust her head out.

“It’s OK. I haven’t fallen,” I ventured hopefully, but any relief she felt at her husband being spared a nasty fall was hard to detect.

She was already looking past me, at her beloved cleaner lying in three distinct chunks.

She railed: “What on earth have you doing? Why have you thrown my Dyson down the stairs? You’ve been bumbling about in the dark again, you great lump!

“That was the best cleaner I’ve ever had, and now you’ve gone and broken it.”

There wasn’t a lot I could say to that, so I retrieved as many bits as I could, and re-assembled them in what I thought was the correct manner.

Everything seemed to slot back together, apart from the couple of bits of plastic I slipped into my pocket in the hope they were merely decorative, rather than serving any essential purpose.

I plugged it in, switched it on, and to my great relief the motor roared into vibrant life once more.

“There you are, as good as new – all that fuss for nothing,” I crowed, as I wheeled the appliance into the living room.

“These things are built to withstand a bit of punishment, you know.”

Mrs Hextol eyed it suspiciously, and to my chagrin, when she gave it a gentle, experimental push, the front wheels fell off.

I put them back on, but Mrs H then noticed the little bristly bar thing at the front wasn’t spinning round.

Worst was to follow, for no matter how many times she passed the machine over a biscuit crumb on the floor, it remained stubbornly unvacuumed up.

I had several more goes at putting the machine back together, with equal lack of success.

Eventually Mrs Hextol declared: “It's broken – accept it, and face the fact you’ll have to buy me a new one.

“Why were you messing about with it in the first place?” she asked with some venom.

“Well, I was just bringing it downstairs for you, my little pomegranate, when it sort of slipped,” I whined, which produced even greater fury.

“Bringing it down? I’d only taken it up half an hour ago while you were watching the cricket!”

Published by http://www.hexhamcourant.co.uk