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Hoovering up the criticism
NAGGING works, apparently. It
said so in the papers last week.
A study, published in the New
Scientist magazine no less, has
concluded that: "Women who are forever
urging their other halves to help more
around the home may feel at times that
they are wasting their breath. But they
should persevere - because experts have
declared that nagging does work."
Now it would be wrong of me to suggest
that my wife is a nagger. She insists
she doesn't nag. She's just good at reminding
me of my duties.
To be fair to myself, I think I'm pretty
helpful around the place. My specialities
are cutting the grass on Saturdays and
vacuuming on Sundays. It's just that
things always seem to go wrong whenever
I try to be helpful - so spectacularly
wrong that there's no chance of covering
my tracks.
Like the time I pushed the lawnmower
too close to the inflatable swimming
pool and left a gaping hole in its
side. Knowing that I'd be well and truly
in the doghouse (again), I tried to secretly
patch it up with duct tape but it
just kept bursting open and making such
an embarrassingly loud noise that I had
to declare the truth for fear that the
neighbours might think I was suffering
from chronic flatulence.
Soon afterwards, I accidentally mowed
over the hosepipe and reduced its length
by about 12 feet. I hid the severed piece
of pipe behind the garden shed and
shoved the nozzle on the end of what was
left.
I thought I'd got away with it too. My
wife didn't notice for a fortnight but she
became suspicious when the hose-pipe
no longer reached round to the front of
the house to wash her car, and I had to
own up.
Then - having not been nagged but repeatedly
reminded to do so for several
days - I climbed onto the roof to tackle
the ivy taking over the side of the house
and managed to cut through a hidden
wire with my electric shears. There was
no getting away with that one either, because
the telly went off in the middle of
Desperate Housewives.
And so to my latest disaster. It happened
last Sunday when I got the Dyson
out to do my regular spot of vacuuming.
It was the day after my daughter's 16th
birthday and the lounge was still littered
with party poppers and blown up
balloons.
I swear the nearest balloon was at
least ten feet away but it shot across the
carpet towards me like a long lost pet
and got sucked into the undercarriage of
the Dyson, which is clearly a lot more
powerful than I thought.
I might have got away with this terrible
misdemeanour had it not been for the
terrible burning rubber smell that
spread through the house, setting off the
fire alarm, and triggering a scene of
panic.
My wife rushed into the lounge,
demanding: "What have you done?"
"Nothing," I ventured - but there was
no escape.
"Well, what's that smell?" she sniffed,
like a bloodhound that won't be put off
the scent.
"Er, I hoovered up a balloon," I replied,
hesitantly. And then I found myself saying:
"It wasn't my fault - it was the
balloon."
I have no idea what damage has been
caused to the inner workings of the
Dyson but it no longer sucks and it continues
to emit a burning smell whenever
it's switched on.
It's been left standing in the hallway
for the past week and, every now and
then, my wife mentions that it needs fixing.
But she doesn't nag.
THE THINGS WIVES SAY
LAST week, it was my pleasure to speak
in the village hall at Ingleton, near Darlington,
to raise funds for the community
association.
The committee had put up posters
around the village - see above - to advertise
the event and I was so impressed,
I decided to take one home to
show my wife.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"It looks nothing like you," she
said"And when have you ever hung
the washing out? And I bet that vacuum
cleaner isn't broken like ours."
THE THINGS KIDS SAY
CHILDREN ask the strangest questions.
June Luckhurst, one of those who
kindly turned out to the Ingleton bash,
remembered the time her grand-daughter
asked: "Have you got a bum,
Grandma?"
"Yes," replied June. "And it's quite a
big one."
10:37am Thursday 15th May 2008
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