My less than beautiful Hoover.Part One.

I've an uneasy relationship with technology. I can't understand why things which don't work don't respond to the threat of a hammer or spanner. Recently I bought a hoover which promised it would do everything but write a cheque. Anyway, these days, that's so last year, it seemed a trifling consideration.
To begin with and in a roar not unlike a jet taking off, my hoover and I set about the house. The machine refused nothing but the electric blankets. It swallowed the attached cords without a murmur, scooped up nuts, screws and bolts with ease and set about enough house dust and fluff to start a compost heap.
Determined to look after this new gadget I read the instructions and learnt that the machine's efficiency relied on regular and proper cleaning of its filters. Dear Reader, I confess to making a diary note as to when the filter needed washing.See? I meant business!
Driven by this new found enthusiasm for getting things right, I duly washed one of the the filters- hung it somewhere safe to dry. So safe in fact, that I now can't remember where I put it.
I shall continue this tale once I get off the hoover help-line queue.
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