By Miss Pollyanna, 20th April 2017

White Noise Nirvana

The Vacuum Cleaner - a Modern Woman’s Trip to the Spa...

The Vacuum Cleaner – a Modern Woman’s Trip to the Spa…

The follicles on my scalp could almost be indulging in an Indian Head Massage. If I close my eyes I can almost feel the magical touch of fingers penetrating deep into my nourished roots; I can almost sense the warmth of a sandalwood candle glowing somewhere in the ether, and I can definitely smell something aromatic. Well, grass actually.

Nooooo. Not that kind!

Karl Cossio
Karl Cossio

Yet, the only kind of rooting that’s going on here is me with my backside planted firmly to my desk, no sign of a masseuse in sight.

So I am wondering, is it just me? 

Or does anyone else get this most sublime of sensations when a mower is a’ purring?

Oh and vacuum cleaners do this to me too, and drills, or a motorbike engine ticking over – but lorries are the best!

Washing machines? No. They’re not quite on a par. And I’m not quite into burning out hairdryers a la Wayne Rooney to drift myself off to the Land Of Nod, though I can almost understand Wayne’s apparent addiction to the soothing drones of the jet engine as he flits about the globe lying down in the ‘corridor’ of First Class to get a decent night’s kip. But I probably wouldn’t attempt it next time I fly Easy Jet.

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I’m talking about White Noise Nirvana.

Aka the Working Mum’s Pampering Session. Well, this Working Mum’s Pampering Session anyway.

White noise blisses me out. And just like England’s Captain, I really could sleep through it too.

And it turns out I am not alone.

It all goes back to babyhood. White noise takes some of us back to the meditative, synchronised frequencies of The World Outside of The Womb; perhaps also explaining the reason that these ‘chaotic’ noises from machines or the perpetual dripping of water from a tap actually serve to calm and ease a baby with colic, or an infant who is crying hysterically for no apparent reason. White Noise is addictive.

So when do some of us learn to loathe it? When does it become a nagging explosion of hinterland anarchy? And why the Marmite divide?

I’ve searched the Internet for clues, and it and I are none the wiser.

The only thing I do know is the gardener has moved about five houses away now and I could almost cry.

I have to wait a whole month until my next virtual Indian Head Massage!


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