Dust

Harumphing and wheezing, the bin lorry inches down the road, its cluster of fluorescent men calling to each other in bin-language as they trundle the bins back and forth.
I've already been sitting on a stone in the garden with my toes in the grass, eating a bowl of cereal in the sunshine. I mowed the grass last night and it's soft and scratchy at the same time like a crew cut, with lots of bits of chopped up leaf and daisy scattered about. I raked the clippings into two huge piles but I must have missed some.
Alas, today is housework day and the sun will be shining to itself this morning while I mop the floors and roar round with the hoover. It's dastardly beams will illuminate all the dust I'm missing and all the circles of sticky cup-traces, and drifts of cat fur on the wooden floor (how come she can lose so much fur and still be so furry?).
This house is like a living being that excretes massive quantities of dust.
What does it eat to make this happen?
I've been checking my extremities and I'm still complete.
I can only think that a dust-spreader comes in through the cat flap at night and scatters handfuls of stodgy grey stuff in the corners, flinging handfuls of the tiny glittery stuff into the air at dawn.