Gabriel's Groans: Why Returning A Hoover Made Me See Red!

I am very pleased to confidently reveal; I am a very calm and collected person (that's what my psychiatrist says anyway). I simply take a valium now and then, a little more often when my family come to stay. If you knew my family you wouldn't judge, you'd ask me to pass you the packet. Anyway, the other day my hoover packed in, though I am load to admit I didn't think the kitten from next door was that small. He survived, my hoover didn't.

On visiting the local household shop, I found myself staring at an array of hoovers. Numerous brands, colours and sizes lined the shelves. After some serious deliberation, I chose an orange (same colour scheme as my living room) upright one with no lead. It was a chargeable hoover, which I thought was cool. Off I went to try out my new purchase.

F**k sake, I glared down the hose of the hoover. A hissing sound like leaking air was coming from somewhere inside. 'Not the blasted kitten!' After further inspection I realized the sound was the battery. The flat battery. Oh! God, typical, a battery powered hoover with a flat battery. I put the hoover on charge and decided to have a coffee (too early for a drink). Thirty mins later I went back to the hoover.

Jesus! within three mins the hoover hissed to a stop. I jumped up and down, and only just stopped myself from hurling the damn thing out the window. Three G & T's later (I had to do something between charging intervals) after five more attempts at charging the stupid hoover I gave up! At this rate it would take me days to hoover the flat and I'd already ran out of gin.

The next day, I brought the hoover back to the store. Admittedly it wasn't looking as neatly tucked up in the box as when I bought it, but that's because the blasted upright handle wouldn't fold down again. I would have taken great pleasure forcing the damn thing into the box, but I realized a broken hoover wasn't going to get me my refund. Dropping the box on the floor of the shop I calmly said (thanks to my buddy valium).

''I bought this hoover yesterday and it doesn't work, sooo I would like a refund.'' I smacked my lips together and gritted my teeth into what I hoped was a friendly smile.

''What's wrong with it?'' the guy behind the counter asked.

I continued to grit my teeth. ''Er, besides the fact that it doesn't work you mean? well, the colour is all wrong and er the handle won't go down.'' I pointed to the handle sticking out of the box. The guy, which I realized had one eye that looked to the left peered over the counter, well one eye did. Pierre (he wore a name tag) looked at me (well one eye looked at me). I was trying really hard to look at both, and getting seriously cross-eyed.

''You can't get a refund because you don't like the colour,'' Pierre smirked.

''I didn't exactly say, I didn't like the colour, what I don't like is the fact that it doesn't work.'' I wanted to add moron in there somewhere, but decided it was a little early in the day for bad language.

''What exactly doesn't work?'' Pierre asked putting a hand to his skinny hip.

''Pierre,'' I said. ''This hoover is a chargeable hoover and it doesn't stay charged long enough to hoover my door mat.'' I stared at his right eye (the one that wasn't looking to the left) with what I hoped was annoyed conviction.

Pierre shifted his hip. ''Now,'' he said and shook his finger at me. ''You said it didn't work.''

I glared in disbelieve at stupid Pierre. ''Three minutes hoovering for every thirty minutes charging doesn't count as working you moron.'' There I said it.

''It's not suitable for people with OCD.'' Pierre shouted back.

''I want to speak to the manager,'' I demanded in a high pitched voice. ''You do have a manager don't you?'' I looked around the shop as if the manager would suddenly appear. Pierre picked up a phone on the desk and turned away from me, mumbling into it. At least it gave me a break from that eyeball of his. Jeez I was getting dizzy.

A smiling Pierre turned around. ''Mr Dolittle is gone to lunch.'' I was becoming more and more aware of a tingling sensation in my hands. The desire to lean over the counter and squeeze all the air out of Pierre's skinny neck till he sounded like my hoover was becoming uncontrollable. I was beginning to the see the headlines in tomorrows paper.

REJECTED REFUND CUSTOMER STRANGLES HOOVER SALES ASSISTANT. POLICE SAY THE WHOLE THING SUCKED.

I clasped my hands behind my back and retorted as calmly as I could (one valium wasn't enough). ''Your policy,'' I pointed to the sign on the counter. ''Says that goods can be returned with full refund granted within fifteen days. I bought the bloody thing yesterday now give me my money back.''

The smirk was getting bigger on Pierre's silly mug. ''It's not in the same condition as you bought it! is it?'' he waggled his finger at the hoover. I was sick of his waggling finger. I wanted to grab his finger and bite it clear off. I wanted to shake his bloody eye straight.

Having plonked myself on a bright lime bean bag only to sink to the floor, I waited for the return of Mr Dolittle. What seemed like an age went by.

''Hello, I am Mr Dolittle,'' a squeaky voice said. I realized I'd almost dozed off.

''Hello,'' I said struggling to get up. ''I want to return this hoover, it doesn't work.''

Mr Dolittle peered over his glasses. He wore a dark green suit that looked like it was a hundred years old. Mind you Mr Dolittle didn't look a day younger.

''Ah! yes Petter told me. However, the hoover isn't in the same condition, now is it?'' he said waving a finger at the hoover.

''Crikey do all you sales people go to same, 'how to be a complete idiot school'. And Who's Peter?'' The valium had left the building.

Mr Dolittle spun around and pointed at Pierre. ''Peter.''

''But, his name badge says Pierre,'' I said.

''A misprint.'' Pierre or rather Peter answered with a ridiculous smirking grin.

''Oh! like misfit,'' I smirked back. One point for moi!

I told Mr Dolittle, if I didn't get my money back I would complain to the European sales standard committee (whoever they are). I would put an add in the paper of how badly I was treated. I'd contact the consumer rights department and I'd write a comment on trip advisor (I was running out of ideas). By the time Mr Dolittle realized I was shouting and customers were leaving, the old bugger finally gave in. I left the shop with my 29.99€ and a triumphant smile on my face. Having purchased a second hoover in another department store, I headed home.

''I don't believe this!'' I fumed as I stared in horror at the black sludge that my new hoover had coughed up all over my living room floor. ''That's it.'' I threw my arms up in the air, and went out to buy a bottle of gin, oh! and a sweeping brush; to hell with hoovers!

Copyright:

© 2010 Gabriel Wilson All Rights Reserved