'Where can I find vacuum cleaner sex?'

Dear reader in Germany. Yes, you, who typed the above urgent question.

Naturally, the answer brought you to grit's day. To the seductive charms of her Hoover, Dyson, and the One with no name.

Before we begin the sexy photo tour, I should tell you, that for myself, I do not yearn for my pornographic vacuum cleaners. I plan no dalliance with any of them. In fact, in confidence, I hate them. I hate them with my woman's vengeance. The sort she reserves for domestic equipments that may have been designed by a man who wants them for sex, because they are no sodding use for sucking up carpet fluff. (Or, in my household, several strata of craft debris.)

But it is worse. I have a cruel and bitter streak at the heart of my nature, and I want to make my vacuum cleaners suffer for the pain they have given my spirit.

In fact, let me pause, while I go back to their prison at the top of the stairs and give them a good kicking.

See? Sex and violence at grit's day.

But why, Grit, do you not love your sexy vacuum cleaners?

Because, regarding actual sucking up of carpet debris, of craft peelings, of anything, they are unfit. More than unfit. Totally sodding useless. I have dumped them here, on the landing, in the bit that no-one ever knows what to do with, where we pile up books, shoes, and now, the non-functioning vacuum cleaner collection. It is a hall of shame, literally.

Let us explore the goods.

There. That is the sodding Dyson, skulking behind the banister. I hate the bastard. It weighs more than I do, inevitably smashes into the wall every time I try and pick it up, and it doesn't suck. A bit broke off four years ago which I failed to glue back on with Hard as Nails. It now dangles, uselessly. Oh, my pain! The Dyson only works if I grovel on hands and knees, hold the broken flexible end at right angles to the floor, and plead. Then it manages a teensy weensy bit of a pathetic suck. When I turn it off in despair, it vomits.

Or you could try the Hoover?

Turn this on, and it roars like a jet engine. That is all.

The One with no name! Probably a ripped-off design screwed together in a manufacturing unit in Shenzhen.

But oh, how I once adored it! Lightweight, and I could swing it round corners, it was my favourite! Working hard, loyally, for at least eighteen months, happily and powerfully sucking up everything it could find, only narrowly missing the hamster, but always ready, always on duty! I thought it would last forever!

You can start this up. It will get all hot, before inexplicably shutting down and refusing to start again. It promises much, yet delivers nothing. All is ash and dust. Old age is a terrible thing.

Dear reader in Germany, if you are desperately searching for sexy vacuum cleaners, then here, take mine. I shall pimp this sorry brigade for your pleasure.

Take them all. Explore their vulnerabilities, which now are many. Crush them to your command. It will be easy. And when you have finished, take them properly, where they belong, to the vacuum cleaner disassembly pile. Please. It would save me the journey.

Dream kitchen

YIPPEEE!!! Here I am, standing in a charity shop next to Squirrel yattering away about the possibility of peanuts and what should come on the radio but an ancient track from twenty years ago which plunges me straight back driving round the twisting back ends of Woburn Abbey, singing along to a kitchen.

Go here for the most useful review to this most wonderfully English of bands, then cruise Frazier Chorus on youtube. Meanwhile, I'll pop down to the library to make sure they stock Sue. I can rip it into my ipod and singalong to the glory that is a dead pigeon, a little Chef, and Shake 'n' Vac.

Ahh! The exuberance of youth!

Displacement

Of course I may have the suspicion that this cleaning is a displacement from saying what I feel or even acknowledging it, especially when here is a bit of floor that needs a sparkle. And that is, how sad and empty is this house without Shark.

In fact if I clean up this kitchen work surface here, I can just tell myself that I do not need to think about anything else, like whether Shark is quad biking today, and whether she is falling off that quad bike and is, at this moment, being airlifted from the side of a Welsh mountain, and then with this vacuum cleaner I do not need to think that the organisers have been trying to contact me on the emergency mobile telephone number, and how they haven't been able to reach me because I might have forgotten to turn it on, or I have left it under my pillow in the bedroom where it has been ringing and ringing for the last hour while Shark is in the emergency operating theatre.

And if I give these doors a wipe then I might not need to think about how Shark would say, if she were here, Mummy, have you noticed what an enormous presence I am in the house, even when you don't notice me and even though you managed to elbow me in the head last week because my head is at your elbow height and I have a habit of standing right behind you quietly when you do not know I am there and, when I speak, you jump round and manage to knock my ear off with your pointy elbow? Mummy, have you noticed how silent and quiet a reader I am, except with Tin Tin when I suddenly burst into laughter, possibly when Captain Haddock is shouting blasphemies at the empty whisky bottle, which is something that I have noticed that adults do and especially you mummy, at 11 o'clock at night when you have said everyone should have gone to sleep hours ago and I say in a loud voice that even though I know I have to get up at 8 in the morning for the workshop that I am still going to read Destination Moon one more time?

And mummy, have you noticed how full of attitude I am right now and how hard I have been working to justify your line of that child is aged eight going on thirteen. And have you noticed that if I don't like something I will aim that withering look at you, the one I have been experimenting with to see if it will kill plants and small furry animals, and it happens when I look down my nose and narrow my eyes, particularly after those things you say like Are you wearing socks with those sandals? And have you noticed how I can answer back now with such lip that I can send daddy Dig scuttling from the room, with his parting words something like And do not talk to your parents like that! when he is clearly just so dumbfounded at what I said that it must have been a really excellent answer-back line, probably as bad as a church blasphemy on a Sunday, so that's a line I'll try again, and next time, just to see what you do, I'll repeat it in public. With hand gestures.

And mummy, have you really noticed how much I can eat at one sitting, how many cut up bits of paper I can generate from one pair of scissors and a ream of paper in just five minutes, how loud I can make Tiger scream in the street, and how much I can provoke Squirrel at 7.30 in the morning so that you start slamming doors and waking up the neighbour who sleeps all morning after his night shift? And have you noticed mummy how much mess I can make on the hall carpet when I come in from the garden and forget to take off my sandals which are now platform shoes because they have a two-inch layer of mud and clay strapped to the bottom. And have you really noticed how bloody awkward I can now be about simple things like getting into the car, and how I stand there shouting in the street I cannot get in! when Tiger is sitting in there, because I know for sure she will start screaming? Have you noticed those things about me? Have you?

And I would say Shark, I have noticed them all, and more, and on Tuesday when I spoke to you for 15 minutes on the telephone to see if you had settled in OK at the nearest thing to a boarding school we could find for the week, and how when you spoke back to me my heart just leaped down that telephone line and I wanted to follow right after it and come out the other end and give you such a great big hug and say You are wonderful, my big, beautiful, grown up baby girl, how much I love you, and then when I asked Shark, Are you missing us, without a skip or a beat you said simply, but with possibly the hint of surprise that you'd been asked to consider this, you answered cheerily No! Of course not! and what's more, there is Madagascar playing right now in the common room so we have phoned at an awkward moment. And then I said well that is good my darling and run back and do not miss the funny bits with the scaredy lion, because do you know what? I am busy myself right now and I just have to go and clean some floors.

World matters

Stop, Grit! STOP! All this cleaning is making holes in my brain. Not because of the fumes from Airwick but because when there is cleaning there is NOTHING ELSE.

I cannot think of anything right now but where does this foam dice go? Should it go on this shelf in the schoolroom or does it belong in that plastic box I have been calling the Maths Box for the last 18 months. And the cuddly birds that sing. Bird box or cuddly toy box? I mean, these are really important issues of state. Not, shall I educate the kids about the US Presidential elections and the democracies of the world, or should we get the kids to go on the march to stop the western world bombing Iran, all of which is like nothing today compared to where does this squeaky toy chicken live?

Look at MY FLOORS

AND WHOEVER PUT THAT PENCIL THERE IS GOING TO SUFFER.

More pictures of floors (and a kitchen surface)

Now look. I just can't stop.

Pictures of floors

Grit is in a frenzy of cleaning and is uncontactable.

Some of the time she is gloating. Because she can see this.

The floor in the front room.

The staircarpet leading to the bedrooms.

And the rug in the Princess Room.

Can you see any plastic crap / bits of paper / orange peel / knickers / cuddly toys / bits of yellow wool / pieces of cut up cardboard / pencils, crayons and entire stationery cupboard assortment / body parts ?

No. That is why I am gloating.

And while I am doing that, Squirrel and Tiger take a historic footstep on the road to delinquency, addiction and drug dependency. Dig took them both out, so I could get on unhindered, and he took them to a play garden. At the pub.

Je ne sais pas

This is Ermintrude's last full week with us. She's at the safari park with Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, getting angry and shouting in French while sitting in a plastic pedalo shaped like a swan. I'd like to say they're in the middle of the lake, but actually they aren't because they cannot leave the lake side. Shark and Tiger are sitting in the front of the swan, fighting with fists and claws because they both want to pedal and steer, at the same time, and in different directions.*

Meanwhile, it's time for Grit, who is at home and in miserable arse mood, to start weighing up the pros and cons of this au pair business.

On the plus side:

1. The washing up gets done.

2. The kid's rooms are tidied.

3. I set books and earn money.

4. We are still going out, visiting theme parks and pretending to home ed.

5. Ermintrude has taught us how to say 'Push off you donkey' in French.

6. Dig clearly feels he has achieved something in terms of household management.

On the minus side:

1. Because I've no excuse to hang about the kitchen, clearing up, I spend all my free time in the office. Not down the gym, note. Not hitting the charity shops looking for a new pair of jeans. Not reading interesting stuff. Not doing anything in the way of self-image, self-improvement, self-anything. And worse of all, not reading stories to the kids. Just more work. In the office. Which is a depressing place to be at all times and especially when it is not raining.

2. I have to manage someone else in the house and tell them how the washing machine works and whether it is time to dishwash yet. This is hard work. I don't like it.

3. I won't get paid for ages. This is the crap thing about working without a regular salary. You do the work, put in the invoice, it doesn't get paid. It doesn't get paid some more. Then it doesn't get paid on the reminder. Hey! What are we all supposed to eat? Grass? (I know I offer it to the kids, but I am joking.)

4. I feel obliged to find interesting places to go so that I can give the au pair a fun time of it. What I should do is shove a vacuum cleaner at her and go. Actually, Ermintrude has not shown much interest in the vacuum cleaner since her attempt on that direction on 4 July.

5. We will say 'Push off you donkey' to some little kid who is being irritating at the safari park, and then discover, when he starts wailing and fetching mamma, that he's French.

6. Dig seems to have taken having an au pair in the house to mean there is no excuse to come out of his office now at all. Not ever. Except for meal times, when he is summoned by Shark. Keep this up, Dig, and I will post a photograph of the dining table.

So is this au pair malarky worth it? I don't know. Ermintrude is leaving next week and Sasha is arriving. Then, apparently, there's Amanda arriving for autumn.

On balance, I'm not looking forward to it.


* Experience leads to the conclusion: never put Shark and Tiger together in the front of the swan.

The cleaners

Ermintrude thinks we should get a cleaner. She's come to this conclusion after weilding the replacement vacuum cleaner and needing two bags for the enormous balls of fluff that she has found lurking under the bookcase.

The fluff has been there so long it is probably evolving into a primitive life form and has created a functioning brain and lungs for itself. I think this, but I don't say it, because Ermintrude's English might not stand up at this level and she just might be packing her bags ready to leave in the wake of some misinterpretation of what I'm trying to convey about what can be found in the front room.

Well, Ermintrude, I say. We have tried cleaners. Five of them, to be accurate. I'll tell you about them.

The first cleaner didn't exist, but I'll count them, because in my experience, cleaners who don't exist take up far more time than cleaners who do. The first cleaner didn't come via the Maid for You service. In a fit of optimism and in ignorance of reality, Dig paid over a huge amount of money on a monthly basis to be told time and time again over the phone that it was quite difficult getting cleaning staff right now but they could send flowers for his wife's birthday if he could let them have the date.

Honestly, Ermintrude, we cancelled them after two months because they seemed only interested in running an Interflora service and nothing to do with actual things we needed like cleaners and plumbers.

Cleaner number two came from a cleaning agency out of the local newspaper. She was very nice and did come regularly at first. She did make quite a record for herself though. She managed to break the Dyson vacuum cleaner, coffee grinder, pedal bin and bath. The bath was sensational. She swung the broken Dyson straight at the bath panel; it cracked smartly in two, then a large dagger shaped chunk fell out, leaving a splintered, gaping hole so we could see the pipework. That's why we have a curtain at the side of the bath Ermintrude. You thought it was for decorative purposes, didn't you? There you go. Never think anything is simple in the Grit household.

Cleaner number three arrived when Cleaner number two left for Dorset. Cleaner number three smashed the frame of my favourite picture which was in the hall. I know it was just a print and just from Habitat, but I liked it. I didn't like the cleaner, actually. She was rather grumpy about the type of cleaning on offer here at the Pile; I was glad when she didn't show up and I could quietly suggest to the agency that another personality type might be better suited to being in an environment that does not use Airwick or Pledge.

Cleaner number four was downright odd and wouldn't come back after a couple of weeks. I think she was carrying around a couple of hundredweight of chips on her shoulders. I know that sounds odd, Ermintrude, but I'll explain about a chip on the shoulder later. Now doing a cleaning job is fine by me. I am eternally gratefully to anyone who does this job because I don't like it and am not very good at it. And I am sure I have never said anything demeaning or rude or unpleasant about the job of being a cleaner. But within minutes of being in the house, Cleaner number four shouted in a huff 'I have a degree in sports science, you know!' and proceded to prove it by running up and down the stairs 40 times. I felt I had to acknowledge her ability at stair-running by clapping, which seemed to make everything worse. I was quite glad she decided not to come back after week two.

Cleaner number five was the last, because I couldn't take any more. Cleaner number five was Holly, who was being beaten up by her husband. She'd left him once already and come back to him when he wooed her all over again and promised to reform. Then she didn't get ready to go out quick enough one Saturday night and got a black eye for her tardiness, which she turned up with one Monday morning. When she turned up with four children in tow, I really had to wonder what I'd got myself into by hiring a cleaner in the first place.

At this point I decided not to hire any more cleaners and decided to do the job myself. Quite when I thought I might clean the house, given the home educating of triplets, a job in the office and the daily routine of cooking, feeding, washing, I'm not quite sure.

Which is why the house is in the state it's in today, Ermintrude.

Now, I'll show you where the vacuum cleaner bags are.