The One with the Window Cleaner and the Shame

So there I was, sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea.  Then the doorbell went. So, as any normal adult would do, I hid.

Yep, I hid. I didn’t want to speak to anyone, I was covered in cheese sauce from the cub’s tea, and I generally couldn’t be arsed. So I dived from the sofa and crouched in the bay window. As you do…

Then the door went again, this time a knock. I was still crouched there thinking “Bollocks, go away, fuck, fuck, bollocks”

I should just emphasise that I had no real reason to be hiding, other than that I looked like crap and couldn’t be arsed.

Knock went again. I continued with the hiding, and the under-the-breath-cursing.

Then I heard footsteps, going off the drive. “Hurrah!!! I’m free!”! I thought. I waited a bit more, just to be on the safe side. Then I nudged my nose up over the windowsill, ever so carefully, to have a look around.

And there he was, the window, cleaner, re-squeegeeing the window, six inches from my face, looking right at me. I was caught red handed. It had been raining since he had cleaned them, and he’d come round for the money. And now it was just obvious that I had been hiding. How utterly embarrassing.

Not my actual window cleaner. Credit: Telegraph.co.uk

“Alright?” he shouted, looking down at me like I’m some sort of weirdo, quite justifiably.  Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt.

I grabbed my purse and went to the door. “I was, er, just changing a nappy…” I said. I have no idea if he saw me on the sofa with the tea in the first place… but I’m pretty damn sure he knew I was fibbing.  “Right, so I just owe you for the front windows?” I said, because I forgot to leave the back gate open, and assumed he couldn’t get through to the do the back ones.

“Nope, I did the back as well.” He said. “You want to get that grass cut, love…”

I was horrified and confused. To get into our back garden, you need to go through the house, or climb over a wall that is probably 9 feet high.

“I used me ladders…”

Oh, well, that’s alright then. You obviously used your stupid ladders, because you are a sodding window cleaner and you obviously have a great big stupid bloody ladders. IT’S LOCKED FOR A REASON!!!!

The reason being that the back garden looks like an actual jungle-cum-landfill. The grass is knee level through sheer laziness, and we had recently cleaned out the garage so there is various crap on the grass waiting to be taken to the dump. And as if that isn’t bad enough, last night’s wind has taken the paper recycling and scattered it all over the garden. And it’s not all just ours, either. Pizza boxes galore.

The shame, oh the shame.

But really, that’s not OK to just climb into someone’s garden is it? Not if the door is locked? Is that really rude or really considerate? Am I liable if he falls off his ladders? Does he think I’m some sort of actual tramp now? And a lying tramp at that? Why do I even care what the window cleaner thinks? How dare he disturb my cup of tea to made me feel bad about my lack of lawnmowering?

I gave him his seven quid, cheeks burning, and made my excuses to return to an allegedly urgent baby related matter. (Baby was fast asleep. Lying again.)

Oh, the shame. The shame.