Seagulls and old men in fleeces

While I endeavour to hang up my Marigolds and take up a more meaningful profession I must stil earn a living. So, for now, I must remain a cleaner. Cleaning is a hazardous business at times. In fact, just lately, I have been thinking that I should have a bodyguard the size of a mountain with me - y'know, like Beyonce.

I have come to this conclusion due to recent events.

Last week, we were cleaning carpets in a lady's house. Our van was parked - legally. Our equipment not in anyone's way. But oh dear. Along came an old man in his 'fleece' (see previous posts for my hatred of them) waving his walking stick in the air. Ranting. Raving. His face turning purple with rage. He did not like where our van was. He did not like the noise. And despite my calm assurances that we were working as fast as possible he continued yelling at me.

'Please do not shout at me,' I said calmly.

'Shout at you,' he replied. 'I'm not going to shout at you. I'm going to hit you.'

And with that, he raised his stick and was about to strike me.

Well. Can you imagine? I was livid.

I gave him a molten lava look and said 'if you lay one finger on me, I will call the police.'

To which, he spun on his heels and scurried away as fast as his walking stick would take him.

And, if that wasn't enough.

Just this week we had to clean carpets at a house where seagulls were nesting on the roof - it was a bungalow and three, adorable, fluffy chicks were in a nest by the chimney.

'Aaaah,' we said until mum and dad seagulls and aunties, uncles and grandparents seagulls decided to attack us. Everytime we went out to the van they dive bombed us like World War II aircraft.

So, you see. Cleaning is a harzardous profession. Now if you'll excuse me I have to be fitted with an Interceptor body armour system!

The Flea Market

I arrived home after my first foray into the world of retail trade ie my stall at a local flea market (see previous blog when I decided to hang up my Marigolds) to a sea of expectant faces.

'Hiya, mum,' my son said. 'How did it go?'

'Well. I didn't sell anything, but I do know how to break a man's foot.'

Which I think, on reflection, is quite a useful piece of knowledge.

It all started when I arrived at the local flea market to sell my wares. My wares being carefully sourced Fairtrade recycled jewellery and other Fair trade items. All this in a bid to escape the horrors of cleaning for a living and help my fellow man while I'm doing it.

I set up my stall and I must say for a first attempt it was pretty good. My prices were okay, too. The fella at the next stall said so.

There were quite a few stalls. Wooden carvings, herbal concoctions, handmade jewellery and cards and so on. It was really quite colourful. The lady opposite was from Austria. The woman on the right a university lecturer who bottled home made olive oil and herbs in her spare time and the fella on my left who was also selling Fair Trade, only lotions and body creams etc. I thought we rather complmented each other.

Three of us were jokingly called 'flea market virgins' and generally everyone was nice to each other. But it was a hot day and the pros soon concluded everyone had gone to the beach. Who wanted to trail around a stuffy hall looking at paintings, tomato plants and home made vegetarian rissoles when they could be on the beach???

In our boredom the fella next to me shared his Maltesers, which I thought was very nice of him. Then he shared his smokey bacon crisps. And then we got talking. Turned out he used to be a 'bouncer' and knew a few moves. So he taught me how to duck a punch (should the event ever occur) and how to get out of a strangle hold if my attacker came from behind hence and that's how I learnt the 'foot break' move.

So whilst my first step into market trading was a bit of a damp squib. Any would-be-mugger had better watch out. Not a complete disaster after all, then.

Marigolds And Me

I knelt before the white porcelain - well, I say white but that isn't exactly true - my Marigold covered hands each held a Brillo pad and two thoughts flashed through my mind:

1. I should call David Cameron and insist that toilet cleaning is part of the national curriculum because I've faced enough feces-encrusted bogs to know that the great British public haven't a clue how to clean one or perhaps are too bone idle to try.

2. I am so much better than this.

This particular toilet was a lost cause. There was only one thing that would shift the decades old dung stuck to it -- a grenade.

I have a brain. I really do. And I'm on a mission. I'm going to hang up my marigolds. It may not happen overnight. But it's going to happen.

I shall start a stall. I said stall not stool. And I will sell things. Things I like. Things like Fair Trade recycled jewellery made by teenage mothers in Kenya. I will try and help myself while I help others. This is the beginning. Yes, I will fall on my face but in the end I will succeed and then the world will think we should have appreciated that domestic goddess while we had the chance.
Now who's going to clean up our ejectamenta!