A Metaphor for Life

As I was pushing the beast that is my hoover, back and forth across a ruined carpet this morning, hoping for a miracle, I thought about how the sound that it emanates is not dissimilar to the sounds I make in my head rather a lot of the time. It growls very loudly and then every now and again, when I require it to accelerate, it almost screams at me and then it settles down again into a complaining whir.

I’m quite sure that all parents make these sounds in their heads. This particular model of hoover is certainly not top of the range. We couldn’t afford the upright Dyson that I was drooling over on Amazon, so we went for one that said it picked up pet hair and cost 70 quid. Still a lot for a hoover, I thought, but seemingly in the hoover world the model we chose was just very average. I reckon that upright Dyson that costs about £250, is the equivalent of those mummies who wear suede, stiletto boots on the school run and have groomed eyebrows. I expect it purrs, just as I imagine they do, as they talk about their child’s harp lesson with a friend, over a soy latte. Meanwhile, me and most other parents run around endlessly, not knowing their arse from their elbow a lot of the time. Groaning and complaining under the sheer effort of life. Trying to do the same jobs over and over again, backwards and forwards we go, picking up shit, whilst another constant supply of it builds up behind us.

Don’t get me wrong, I, like you I am sure, enjoy life. I have no wish to purr. I am quite happy wearing a trackie or jeans and having the odd wayward eyebrow hair. I love being busy and having a noisy, crazy family. However, every now and then things just get a little too much and in my head, just like my Hoover, I begin to scream. At which point I just want to take my foot off the pedal, unplug and breathe in the peace.

A few years ago I drooled over the thought of owning a posh washing machine. An expensive one with integrated dryer and settings that claimed to do things I would never have dreamed possible. Anti-crease buttons that meant I would never have to iron again. Instead, I ended up with the cheapest model. The model that moved half way across the kitchen on the spin cycle. The model that had the neighbours banging on the adjoining wall and begging for mercy, as the overloaded barrel heaved clothes around during yet another overly ambitious load. One day when my then husband was away on a business trip, I sat on the washing machine at the height of its frenzy, in an attempt to lessen its movement. The sensation that I encountered was so pleasant, so, let’s say, orgasmic, that it made me think. It made me realise, that for all its noise and protesting, there was happiness to be had and this, I feel, as I heave my screeching hoover around the room, is certainly a metaphor for life.