Some people meditate. I’ve got a robot hoover with a hedgehog sticker. It does more for my sanity than yoga ever could.

For the past six months, our Dreame L40 Ultra – affectionately (and usually sarcastically) called Moron, has been quietly holding my mental health together. It’s not just about the clean floors, though they are a thing of beauty. It’s about the fleeting illusion of order in a house otherwise ruled by teenage lads and two Weimaraners with deeply inflated egos.

We’re a family of six: me, my husband, two allegedly adult birth children who still believe the laundry fairy works weekends, and two foster lads. The youngest, at thirteen, is the baby of the bunch, though not in noise level or ability to spread crumbs into every possible crevice. Add to that two self-entitled Weimaraners, and you’ll understand why a robot cleaner feels less like a useless gadget and more like emotional support on wheels.

Moron runs twice a day without fail. Once at lunchtime, then again in the middle of the night while we’re all asleep and the dogs are plotting their next act of chaos. Every morning I come downstairs to spotless floors and, for a fleeting moment, feel like a competent adult. It’s a lie, obviously, but one I’ve grown rather fond of.

Yesterday, that fragile illusion collapsed. Moron finished its lunchtime round, rolled back to its base, and then… refused to drain. The mop water just sat there, stagnant and sulking. It wasn’t cleaning. It wasn’t even pretending. It had, quite clearly, gone on strike.

Naturally, I went straight to panic. Broken pump. Warranty void. Expensive modern art installation. I roped in my eldest for backup, and we spent two solid hours in increasingly chaotic problem-solving: scrubbing, poking, resetting, muttering, even attempting a pipe cleaner manoeuvre that would’ve made a plumber nervous. Nothing worked.

Thankfully, I did discover one small mercy: it was still under warranty. Not that it mattered because I wasn’t ready to admit defeat just yet.

This morning, I decided to have another go. My younger son joined me, watching like a bemused apprentice. His contributions included, “Do you want the phone for customer support?” and the ever-helpful, “What happens if you get that cocktail stick stuck in the hole?” Both of which raised my blood pressure, if I’m honest, for being uselessly helpful but technically valid questions.

Eventually, defeated, I reassembled everything and pressed the clean baseboard/drain button one last time, more out of stubbornness than hope. And then, out it came.

Floating gracefully from the pipe like a tiny aquatic miracle was the culprit: a small, very dead ladybird, spinning serenely on its back like a synchronised swimmer taking a final bow.

I just stared. The high-tech, self-cleaning robot that had kept my home and my sanity intact for all these months, had been taken down by an insect lighter than a crumb.

Once the ladybird’s final performance was over, the water drained perfectly. Moron whirred back to life, lights blinking triumphantly. Peace – and pride – restored.

Outside, the lads and dogs were already undoing all my hard work: muddy boots in the hallway, half-eaten toast on the counter, and Bodhi once again insisting that river walking is essential to his wellbeing, while Thor can’t decide whether to chase the squirrel up the tree or race a duck across the middle of the lake.

So yes, Moron is back in service, the floors are clean again, and I’ve learned that even the smartest machines can be undone by nature – preferably with style and spots.

And if you’ve never looked up “Hedgehog on a Roomba” on Spotify, do yourself a favour. You’ll understand exactly why Moron wears its hedgehog sticker with pride.