Some folk close to my heart have been moving into their new home over the last couple of days. Yesterday, I helped by transporting various elements of their lives from A to B in my car. Today was the heavy duty stuff: moving furniture, putting beds together and suchlike. Sounded a bit beyond my capabilities (or inclinations) so I offered to go round to the old gaff and do a spot of cleaning. Seemed like the easy option.

I didn’t get the ‘all clear’ until just before three o clock. No matter – won’t take long. Armed with mop and bucket, similar to the photo but mine is red, I arrived at their chaotic new abode to collect the key. A bunch of people with slit eyes staring above puffy black bags below were in exhausted evidence as I happily left: ‘see you – wouldn’t want to be you’, I jested. Didn’t know Mike Dyson was waiting at the old place.

I have a Henry to help me keep my little hobbit house nice and clean. You know where you are with Henry: ‘Go on my son; splash it all over’ says Henry in his lovable London-like way. For Henry is an always smiling cockeney; (yes, I know that’s not how you spell it but it was in olden times). Today, Henry was humming to himself in the cupboard,  squashed in with the ironing board, 4 coats and a bunch of dirty washing.

I let myself into the deserted old place. It was a bit creepy. No sign of a hoover. I crept upstairs and there, in the front bedroom, I came face to face with Dyson. I walked around him for a bit. Then I decided to defer the moment and wiped down a few ledges but there was no putting off the confrontation. I wished I’d brought Henry. Eye to eye, we weighed up each other. The trouble is, I’m an open book but he gave nothing away as I plugged him in. Inadvertently, I pulled out his hose. There seemed to be nothing on the end of it. A brush-like contraption might be handy.

Bent double, I picked up a few stray bits. I felt the pain searing up my back. This isn’t right, I thought and went back downstairs to attack the bathroom with a wet cloth and a bottle of bleach whilst I thought my game plan through. The phone rang: ‘everything ok’, asked someone in the new house? ‘Well, I’m having a spot of bother with Dyson’, I admitted. Instructions being forthcoming, I set about the thug with renewed fortitude. For five minutes, he succumbed. Then, when I wasn’t concentrating, he shot up his telescopic attachment.

I had no idea how this happened and even less of a clue regarding how to get things back to normal. I took temporary advantage of his extension to clean up a few edges but, although I now knew how to get his main body parts at a suitable angle, the telescopic cobweb cleaner had made him taller than me so general hoovering was an impossibility. Brut-soaked Henry would’ve dealt with this in an instant. I thought of him, lonely in the darkness of the dirty washing cupboard and cursed my insensitivity. I tried replacing Dyson’s extension in his tube but the bloody thing was so bendy that the telescope had no chance of successful insertion.

The trouble was that Dyson’s extension was hard whilst his bendy bit was all over the place. Finally, having gained control of the errant tube, and holding it firmly in a northerly direction, I managed to slot his telescopic attachment back in. I finished vacuuming the first room and moved onto the landing with a sense of achievement. Round one to me. Then a small piece, that I’d previously failed to notice, fell off. Unabashed, Dyson continued, his motor now in full throttle. I know your game, I thought as I switched him off and tried to work out from whence the fallen piece had dislodged itself. The phone rang again: ‘do you want to come back for a cup of tea’, asked the caller? ‘No, I think I’ll press on’.

Dyson and I danced around each other all across the first floor. At one point, just as I’d come across a forgotten photo of their now-dead cat, he completely subsided and came to a halt. Turned out I’d overstretched him and his plug had left the socket two rooms previously. Well, if you think that’s going to stop me forget it. Finally we hit the stairs. The stairs are very narrow: too narrow for Dyson’s bulk to rest upon. I managed three steps before unplugging, re-plugging and, although I hate to say so, employing the telescopic attachment. Stairs completed: round two to me.

Downstairs was a breeze: I had the better of him. Occasionally, he’d throw out that small unnecessary piece but now I knew where it lived. In any case, once I’d vacuumed the front room, I was back to my trusty mop and bucket. Except that, it was in a state of rebellion. Dyson had decided that every time I hit a piece of wall, he would knock some plaster off. Thus, every time I vacuumed a corner, it would be replete with white droppings as if a flock of seagulls had recently passed by. Having decided to ignore him, I attacked the floor with the mop which, unused to anything more challenging than my miniscule kitchen floor, decided to break in half. Round three to me Dyson: round four to the mop (who you may have paid).

The phone rang (again). Person from the new house is on his way to relieve me. And I will be greatly relieved to return home. New mop day tomorrow. Glass (or three) of the red stuff tonight.