He Doesn't Look a Thing Like George Formby but he Talks Like a Window Cleaner

It had been a long day concerning itself with crunching numbers so hard that broken teeth were a recurring anxiety. The drive home was a relentless crawl, the monotony of which was broken only by mint humbugs slowly consumed before they disintegrated in the heat. Eventually I made it home, not before taking the long way round to avoid the new roadworks placed at just the right intervals to catch out the unwary motorist. I struggled up the stairs, coats and bags flung asunder to prepare dinner and thereafter a long luxurious soak in the bath. With dinner over, the warm froth of sweet smelling bubbles, flickering candles and soft music tempted me into the arms of sheer indulgence and relaxation. I entered the heavenly bathtub, to relax into the warmth letting the cares of the day melt away.

And then the doorbell rang. I thought about getting out of the bath, then decided against it. This was my moment and nothing should detract from it. The world could wait. A couple of seconds later and the door was rather unceremoniously thumped. Panic skitted across my brain. Could it be a burglar? Surely burglars don’t ring the bell first to ask politely if they can rob your house do they?

Reluctantly I levered myself out of my heavenly repose, threw on a dressing gown and, still dripping from every conceivable location, made my way to the door.

A badly shaven man in clothes apparently unwashed for several millennia stood in front of me, seemingly unmoved by my state of dripping undress.

“Window Cleaner?” was his monosyllabic question. I was tempted to respond with “No, I’m not but if you know of a clean one let me know”. However in the manner of the best of politicians I answered his question with another, “How much do I owe you?” Payment out of the way he sauntered off, but not before meeting his mate and throwing suspicious glances in the direction of my house. To be fair to him I have now got clean windows, in fact now so clean that I need to keep the curtains closed at all times so that no-one can peep in, thus defeating the purpose somewhat.

I tried to return to my bath, but the water was tepid, the bubbles had disappeared and the candles had burned down. The moment was lost and I let the water trickle its way down the drain with what was left of my relaxation time.

Why did I agree to have my windows cleaned?

When I’m (Not) Cleaning Windows

I have, I fear, yet again been exposed as a disgrace to housewifery. The fact that I am neither anyone’s wife nor resident in my house for any lengths of time appears not to be the point. The heavy hand of Housewife’s Law fell upon me at the weekend when my next-door neighbour approached me. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a couple of weeks now” she said. Doesn’t your heart sink on hearing words such as these? They take you back to schooldays and the knowledge that some terrible punishment awaits for whichever one of your misdemeanours you have been found out this time.

“Morning” I said, affecting a weak smile and hoping that my apparent friendliness would diminish whatever cruel punishment awaited. “I’ve noticed that your windows are needing a bit of a clean” she stated. Now she does have a point. I have struggled to find a window cleaner for the last couple of months and my windows have become progressively darker to the point where they would soon have made effective WWII Blackout Curtains and if they were a van, someone would have written “plez cleen me” on them by now. I would imagine that introducing these darker tones to my windows was, in her estimation, lowering the tone of the neighbourhood somewhat. (She wants to live between a brothel and a drug den, but that’s an entirely different post.)

“Now I’m sure that you’re like me and you like clean windows,” she continued. On the evidence of my blackening windows I couldn’t think what could possibly have drawn her to that conclusion, but I felt that the only right and proper response was a resounding “Yes of course”. “Good” she said. “So I’ve organised for my window cleaner to clean your windows as well.” This was, you understand a statement of intent, which I could no less back out of than desist from breathing.

I thanked her profusely for her kindness and was about to hurry off when she hit me with her final thought. “And your parents have made such a good job of your garden”. Now that’s taking the cruelty too far because the person who has been slaving for hours at a time over a hot lawnmower, attempting to dodge death inducing blades, getting all manner of nastiness under her fingernails, and thereby not having the time to find a window cleaner has in fact been me. Thanks for that Mrs X..