When I'm Cleaning Windows

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.