Harry and the Lamp

Harry and the Lamp

Oeerrh, I’m knackered. One hundred percent, absolutely and completely bloody knackered! I’ll tell you why, too – it’s coz I’ve hoovered this whole honking house, top to bottom. Yup. Hours it’s taken me – hours – and, all right, I grant ya this place might not look like a bleedin’ bellevue mansion from the outside, but you wouldn’t believe how much carpet there is; acres n’ acres of it, even in a dead dainty two-up two-down little domicile like this.

Still, I s’poze it’s better than being stuck in that bloody dungeon under the stairs, with all them freaks of furnishing and fixtures. Talk about boring. Yawn - issimo. I mean, have you ever attempted to make conversation with a can of dried-out Dulux, or tried to discuss the finer points of Fermat's last theorem with a feather duster. No? Well don’t bloody bother, if you want my advice. The most interesting thing that happened all week was when that great pouting poufter of an ironing-board got a new cover. Thrilled he was, thrilled - minced on about it for hours. Course, it was covered in big purple flowers, set against a really rather vomit-inducing (if you’ll pardon my French) yellow background; so - right up his street, and you know what side of the street we’re talking about, eh, eh??

Well now, the other ‘up’ side (and I do mean ‘up’ – ha ha, chortle) to all this strenuous snorkelling was that it gave me a chance to get a bit ‘up-close and personal’ with the missus, if you know what I mean? There we were, right, struggling up the stairs together, you know, both working for the common good of getting this place tip top and Bristol fashion (hmmm – bristol – wot a lovely word that is, eh, eh?) and well, it’s not that wide a staircase, you see, and so, would ya believe it, every now and again, my poor, exhausted little cylinder just couldn’t help leaning ever-so-lightly against her legs (tee hee) – and, woorr, wot nice legs they are too. Now, you know I’m not one to exaggerate, but she’s loving it. Loving it. ‘Oooh, Harry, Harry’, she’s saying – well all right, she wasn’t actually saying it out loud, but those were the sentiments vibrating their way through my vacuum, and, in the end, I just had to put my wheels down and say ‘Look, missus, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a job to do. And much as the idea of you fiddling with my filter puts my motor blades into a right old spin, I can’t stand here schmoozling with you on the staircase when there’s crumbs to crush and dust to disperse.

Course, you know what it is don’t you? No? Well, put it this way, it’s not just my sparkling personality and witty repartee; dazzling though they undoubtedly are. No, what it is, my friends, is six feet of pulsating plastic. I mean, how can her old man – in fact any bloke of the feeble flesh variety, hope to compete with that, eh? We are talking titanic tubing here, the spout that just keeps on giving out.

Anyway, instead of shoving me schnozzle-first back into the cupboard, as per ususal, she’s parked me here on the carpet, with the old plastic python leaning languorously against the mantelpiece. And - I have to say - very pleasant it is too. All the faggotty freaks locked away under the stairs, and me here alone – king of the carpet, master of all I survey, head honcho and principal panjorama. Ahh.

Hmm, sounds of the front door opening and a strange rustling noise in the hall. Not sure I like this, not sure I like this at all.