OK, you’re going to think I’m mad, but bear with me.

About five years ago, a catalogue dropped out of a sunday paper. I can’t remember the name of the catalogue, or which paper it was nestled in. Maybe that’s not important. The catalogue was A5 size, on flimsy coloured paper - about what you’d expect from the soon-to-be-over innovations folk, except without the gadgets. Come to think of it, the catalogue may very well have had a woman’s name. Janet something. Maybe. Maybe not. In any case it was in cursive handwriting font, yellow on darkish red. The cover may have had a rounded rectangle on it, bordered in yellow, and framing a woman in some sort of flowing kaftan.

There goes my visual memory, again - it’s been five years, but I can still picture it.

The contents of the catalogue were the usual sort of guff aimed at middle-aged to third-age women: anti-slip mats for rugs, things to keep fridges smelling nice, hideous pleated skirts and fruit bowls. But towards the middle of the catalogue (don’t be at all surprised that I got that far: I’m strangely fascinated by catalogues which fall out of weekend papers. Never bought anything from one, though.) was something unspeakable.

Let me describe it.

Imagine that you had an upright vacuum cleaner, right? One of those ones with a hanging bag - though I imagine a dyson would do just as well. Imagine that you thought it was unsightly, standing there in the cupboard under the stairs or behind the kitchen door.

Now imagine that someone thought of making a cover for it, something that would slip over neatly and hide the hoover from the tip of the handle to the bottom of the wheels.

Got that? Good.

Now imagine that rather than just making a plain cover, or even one patterned, this creative inventor chose to design the cover to look exactly like a Victorian maid.

Yes, you heard right.

On top of its head was a frilly bonnet. The long maid’s skirt would sweep down to skim the floor, and the upper body, which slotted neatly over the handle, had fake mini arms, which met in front and grasped a mini broom, or feather duster.

Can you picture it? Can you imagine what it was like?

Now go one further - because it wasn’t enough to stop there, oh no. Now picture that same Victorian maid vacuum cleaner cover with the face of a stuffed cat, dog or mouse.

Truly terrifying. They were about �30, and I have to say I was tempted, if only for the conversation potential when people walked into my kitchen:

“Hey Meg, how’s it going, I was just stopping by and….WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? SHIT! THERE’S A GIANT MOUSE DRESSED UP AS A VICTORIAN MAID SKULKING BEHIND THE DOOR!! WAAAHHH!!”

I’ve been looking online for proof that such a thing does, in fact, exist, but to no avail. You’ll just have to take my word for it. But if I ever came across that catalogue again, and discovered that they were still selling leopard print kaftans and Victorian Maid Cat Vacuum covers, I’d be very happy indeed.

Update:

Ooh, something else. Writing this has reminded me that also featured in the catalogue was a hand held personal massager, which was perfect for relaxing the stresses and strains of everyday life, when rubbed on the shoulders and head - a woman in a posed photo demonstrated how the wand-shaped massager could ease the muscles in the neck. For ease of use, it came in three sizes: 7″, 9″ and 10.5″…

Er. Right.