The Tears of a Machine

After three weeks of not being fit to do any housework, I bit the bullet today and opened the housework cupboard, plugged in the vacuum cleaner and pressed 'go'.
WAAAaaaaaaaeeeeeeuuuurraaaaAAAAAAAAaaaaaaauuuuuuuuu.......
Good grief! I have never heard a Dyson cry before! How distressing!
I upended it, and there, trapped in its rotary brushes, were almost the entire contents of somebody's room, all bound together by mountains of hair, woven into a cunning detritus trap of impressive design (yes, Mr Dyson, I'l pass the plans on to you!).
Wire, thread, wool, dust, bits, a large ribbon-shaped offcut of material, all were wedged tightly in an impenetrable stodge that looked like some kind of eco-insulation.
Bloody hell, if the dirty dishes could have been sucked up instead of washed, I swear they would have been there too!
I got the Strong Kitchen Shears and poked about, cutting little slits in the accessible parts of the stodge, until I could tear clumps of it off and dump them in the bin.
Eventually, the brushes were still  congested, but at least they were visible. A huge and frightening pile of dusty stodge pulsated in the bin; the vacuum cleaner was actually smiling with relief.
When I switched it back on, it sighed happily and slurped dust like never before.
I now have a newly-found respect for what I thought was a simple machine; I hadn't realised that it had feelings.