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Polish Cleaner

  Sun 20th September 2020

In a few hours' time I'll be in Milan with middle daughter. I saw a flight for £20 return and she's found us a cheap place to stay on the outskirts. Before that I had to finish a week's work as what was sold as an office cleaner, but there was a lot of toilet involved. One of the detergents was called Polish Cleaner.

It was in a fleet car leasing firm's offices. There were racks where you can catch up on back issues of Fleet Leasing. The packaging of an unwrapped headset had a picture of a baby crawling about with a plastic bag on its head and a red line through it.

On a whiteboard, people's names in circles together with a number, as if anyone's ever been motivated by being shamed. "Let's smash it!" said the slogan, above coloured stars in felt-tip. I debated as to whether dead flies are general waste or recycling, and wondered if the administrative classes and I were thinking the same thing about each other: "glad I'm not doing your job."

It began at six, which entailed getting up at half four. Cath lent me a front light for my bike. Scary bits of rusting public sculpture along the cycle path in the dark, looking like rapists. In the afternoon, male cyclists in skin-tight lycra tore along as though late for an S&M party.

When I left they offered me a full-time position, on the minimum wage. Instead, I went and had my hair cut quite severely. Middle daughter said "you actually look quite cool, which is a bit worrying as that's not the way I'm used to seeing my papa."

Breaking away from the loud improv theatre of the winos sitting around in the park, a large brown dog lopes up to me. I start stroking it and talking to it, and its owner comes up and apologises, swinging what remains of a bottle of rosé. "But you don't mind?" "No, no, not at all. She looks friendly enough."

He tries the traditional scam of saying that they're just off to get some crack if I'd like to chip in, but they remain chatty and I am invited to join them. On this occasion I wanted to ring Kitty, but I can tell it won't be long before I am admitted into park society.

Hayley, posing as an estate agent, rings and leaves a message on my phone.

Oh hello Mr Looby, this is Barbara from Abbey Lets. It's just about your references for the new house. Unfortunately it has come back saying that you are a dirty Northern cunt. If you'd like to get back in touch and discuss this with me, the number is 01637 suck my cock 425. Thank you!


Comment from: kono [Visitor]

Your description of those cyclists and their race to and S&M party made me laugh out loud!

And back when i was the lowly grunt at the Big World Bank Machine, moving furniture and unloading trucks i often felt the same thing, hearing the inanities of the office drones and their jobs made me glad that when i wasn’t laboring through the day i was sitting at my desk hidden in the bowels of the BWBM handicapping horse races, reading books and sleeping. No quotas or whiteboards with numbers and non-sense… often times i’d sneak off to the private loo and get paid to wank… good days those ;)

Once again a fine addition to the Looby Canon… now with killer haircut!!

Sun 20th September 2020 @ 16:07 Reply to this comment
Comment from: Scarlet [Visitor]

Ack. When will you be back - there is something in the post for you!
Killer haircut? Pics!

Sun 20th September 2020 @ 21:08 Reply to this comment

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 60 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

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