When I’m Cleaning Windows ©
By Michael Casey
Its Saint Patrick’s Day 2017, and I’ve been cleaning
the inside of the bay window where I sit and watch the world while I write and study,
ok I just read the newspapers and watch the news. That’s where some of the
ideas come from, looking out the window and tangential ideas from the Press. I
was glad though that I cleaned the inside of the bay window, George Osborne may
watch on Google Earth as I’ve sent a job request to him at the Evening
Standard.
I don’t want him to think I’ve got dirty windows, first
impressions last after all. I was thinking now that the Evening Standard is
getting a new broom he may sweep me up and let me write for London, from my
chair here in Birmingham from behind my newly cleaned widows. It’s worth a try
I have written my 1,000,000 words now, so give us a job I can do that. Besides
my Shanghai wife might finally be impressed by my words, and then the Chinese
might be kind to the Evening Standard, as everybody loves a Panzi, it means Pig
or FAT FAT boy as I was originally told until my bilingual daughters told me the
correct translation of my Chinese name.
But back to my windows, literally, I need to wash the
outside too before all the rose bushes grow back fierce and dangerous, not
forgetting our cat hiding below. You funny looks from people when you wash your
windows, is he the fat owner of that house. Or rather I didn’t know George
Clooney had moved into the neighbourhood, and fancy him driving a van that does
bathroom sanitation.
As I climb the ladder and hope it can still take my
weight after 30 years, it sways a little until I push down the top bit that
holds both sides together. Little old Irish ladies and their Polish friends
pass by and enjoy the sight of my large posterior in my mighty tight trousers.
They are getting a performance without me really realising it, have I become a
sex object at my age, as I stretch and reach to clean the window.
I spot them in the reflection in the window so I slowly
wriggle and do a reverse pelvic thrust for their benefit, instead of a round of
applause I just get laughter. Then as I finally descend the ladder, my
Arthritis taking over now, the cheeky granddaughter reaches over the garden
wall and pinches my behind. This would never happen to George Clooney, nor
George Osborne, he would write an angry piece about it. I just hope I don’t get
a bruise.
George Formby sung a song, when I’m cleaning Windows,
perhaps I should learn how to whistle that.000000000000000000000000000 Mr Woo
what shall I do, as I have a view from Birmingham full of laughter which I wish
to share before I reach the hereafter. Well that’s my pitch I have to see what
my daughters want for their tea, maybe chips, always a change from Chinese
rice.
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