Level 10: Finding the Vacuum Cleaner

A Lunch Tale of Yoga Knees, Yellow Cars, and the Mayor’s Ongoing War Against Forgotten Laundry

Some Lunch meetings begin with philosophy. Others begin with technical difficulties. This one began with The Mayor accidentally announcing his own old age before breakfast.

“Sorry, I forgot,” he said halfway through the conversation. “You see, I’m so old.”

Fruitloop immediately disagreed, naturally. Rosii disagreed too, although in her case it sounded less like encouragement and more like a formal legal statement. The Mayor announced very clearly that he was not old, thank you very much, and therefore should not be forced into any anti-ageing dance programme involving books, yoga, or suspicious knee exercises.

The whole discussion started because I had been talking about my sister’s family celebrations. My oldest sister, who lives with me, had just turned seventy. Another family member was about to turn eighty, although according to me she looks closer to sixty because she still dances, reads constantly, and somehow has more energy than the rest of us combined. Naturally, Fruitloop transformed this into life advice within seconds.

“So we should dance more and read more,” she concluded brightly.

The Mayor, however, preferred to defend his knees.

Not because anything is wrong with them, he explained. No, no. His knees are perfectly fine. But he is prepared for the future. Somewhere in the loft, apparently, lives a Zimmer frame waiting patiently for its moment to shine. Not as medical equipment, mind you, but as the foundation for an entirely new dance craze: The Zimmer Frame Zumba.

And honestly, at this point in Lunch history, nobody would even be surprised.

Rosii pauses often during these conversations, searching carefully for English words while Fruitloop waits patiently beside her like a cheerful translator at the United Nations of Chaos. It is one of the quiet beauties of these meetings. Nobody rushes. Nobody corrects harshly. Language arrives slowly sometimes, but it always arrives.

Meanwhile, the Mayor contributes cultural commentary from his sleepy European village, where apparently time itself is governed not by clocks but by church bells and confused roosters.

“We don’t race against clocks here,” he announced gravely later in the meeting, as if speaking on behalf of an ancient farming council.

This became relevant when Fruitloop asked whether timers help motivate us during boring tasks. I explained that I simply decide something must be done in thirty minutes and then do it without constantly checking the time. The Mayor, however, lives in a world where roosters decide productivity schedules and chicken pie remains an occupational hazard.

Somewhere between yoga and poultry, the conversation drifted into gamifying boring tasks.

Fruitloop, naturally, was delighted by this topic. She asked what daily chore we would transform into a game. My answer arrived immediately: traffic.

The previous day, it had taken me nearly an hour and a half to get home because of terrible traffic jams. So I imagined turning the journey into a game, the way children invent entertainment during long car rides. The Mayor mentioned the old “Yellow Car” game from Britain, where every yellow car becomes an event worth announcing dramatically. Suddenly we were discussing imaginary flying cars, guessing games, number plates, and childhood road-trip traditions.

The Mayor later clarified that “Yellow Car” comes from an old British comedy called Cabin Fever, which somehow made the entire thing feel both educational and deeply unnecessary at the same time.

And then came the cleaning levels.

Fruitloop asked us to imagine chores as video game stages. I explained that Level 1 might be vacuuming the house, while Level 10 would involve washing bathrooms and windows — a truly horrifying final boss battle.

The Mayor’s version was even better.

“Level 1 would be getting out of bed on my right leg,” he said seriously. “Level 10 would be actually knowing where the cleaning material is.”

This apparently connects to an ongoing domestic crisis involving forgotten laundry. Fruitloop reminded him — very publicly — that the Mayor constantly forgets his washing. He accepted this accusation with the exhausted dignity of a man long defeated by household appliances.

At one point, Fruitloop suggested rewards for difficult tasks. Coffee, perhaps. Small treats. Positive reinforcement.

The Mayor rejected the entire concept immediately.

“Every time I finish a task,” he sighed, “I’m usually told I’ve done it wrongly. It’s punishment.”

Not from one person, he clarified dramatically.

“Humanity.”

There is something very special about how these Lunches allow ordinary frustrations to become comedy. Laundry becomes philosophy. Vacuum cleaners become emotional support systems. Traffic jams become imagination exercises. Even ageing itself turns into a discussion about yoga, reading, and strategic sock placement.

Because yes — eventually we reached the sock conversation.

Fruitloop asked what magical power we would unlock if folding socks granted abilities. I chose the obvious answer: a magic wand that cleans everything while I sit peacefully reading or doing yoga.

The Mayor, meanwhile, confessed that he uses old socks as air fresheners.

Some readers may need a moment after that sentence.

According to him, the socks are folded strategically around the house after being worn and not washed. Fruitloop objected immediately, but the Mayor defended his position with the confidence of a man who has abandoned all social expectations.

“I should be able to enjoy my own stink,” he declared.

And honestly, that may be the most Mayor sentence ever spoken.

Still, beneath all the joking sat something softer. We talked about wellbeing. About staying active as we age. About gratitude alarms that remind us to stop for a moment and appreciate life. I mentioned my upcoming eye surgery in July and the relief of finally approaching school holidays after a long working season. Fruitloop listened carefully, gently guiding the conversation forward while somehow balancing humour and care at the same time.

That is the strange magic of these lunches. Nobody arrives polished. Nobody pretends life is easy. We arrive tired, distracted, stuck in traffic, forgetting laundry, worrying about surgery, speaking imperfect English, and arguing about vacuum cleaners.

And somehow, between the yellow cars and the rooster clocks, the world feels a little lighter.

Maybe adulthood is simply Level 10 all the time: trying to remember where the cleaning supplies are while keeping your knees strong enough to dance later.