It is a well-documented fact, known only to myself and a small, rather damp badger named Gerald, that the dust under one’s bed does not simply accumulate. No, it is pushed there by a tiny, invisible gentleman in a bowler hat who goes by the name of the Sweeper.
The Sweeper is roughly the height of a standard tea-bag, though considerably less absorbent. He spends his days gathering the crumbs of lost toast, the thoughts we forgot to think, and the stray fluff that escapes from socks.
—Why the bed? I asked him.
Having shrunk myself down by eating a very sour lemon.
—Because, he whispered, while leaning on his broom which was made from a single hair of a sleeping spaniel. —The floorboards are too loud, the ceiling is too high, and the wardrobe is occupied by a goblin who plays the trombone at three in the morning.
I had no choice but to agree. The goblin’s rendition of Danny Boy is notoriously flat.
So, if you ever find a button under your pillow or a sudden patch of lint, do not vacuum it. It is the Sweeper’s work. Leave him a small drop of tea, or perhaps a stamp. He likes the taste of glue.