...I recon these hulking washers purposefully wait until they see people strolling about their homes in the nip or as they embrace a loved one for a sly piece of morning honey fun, rather than at sensible cleaning times when the house is most likely to be empty... Or, actually, maybe never, seeing as I am pretty sure I didn't ask for you to invade my property and then charge me for a job I could probably do myself in the first place.
Instead, the loud clatter of cheap wooden ladders, the whistling of Radio One slurry such as "Riverside (motherfucker)" and the conducting of boring conversations via speaker phone to equally boring people, greet the great British public each morning. Hearing this utter cacophony at 7am as you attempt to rouse your soiled body for another day of work, is about as energising as having a potty full of cold piss thrown over your head and a squeegee rammed up your arse.
Torture.
I've caught the window cleaner down my road have a proper good old look at me as I practised my single fisted drumming today. Weird, I thought it'd take a little longer than two days to warrant a re-clean of all the windows. Front and back. Inside and out.
Suppose the least I can offer him is a cup of tea and a dip in the biscuit barrel.
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