Don't ask me why. I'm doing something useful. I'm getting exercise. I'm getting paid. I like seeing into other people's houses. Funny, I hardly ever feel jealous. And I should, because some of the houses are incredible. Huge. Some of the stuff in them, I wouldn't want most of it myself but it must cost a fortune. Dark furniture, flat-screened tellies, CD players with tiny little speakers. I love music. There's one house I do on Mondays, in Clontarf; they've a great collection of CDs, all the seventies stuff. I got her to show me how to use the CD player. There was no problem. I like her, the owner. Miriam. We're the same age. We both went to the same dances when we were kids. I don't remember her. She married a doctor. I married Charlo. Mott The Hoople, Bad Company, Sparks, Queen — they have them all. I might get a tape recorder and tape some of their stuff. I love the CDs. They're very stylish; I love the colours. They look expensive. I love the way you just a press a button and get the exact song. I don't know how many records I scratched and ruined when I was pissed.
—She's as sweet as Tupelo honey —
Charlo sang that to me, down on his knees.
—She's an angel of the first degree —
He'd just stood on a bee. We heard the crunch and started laughing; on the playground tarmac. I can't remember when; I don't think we'd been going together that long.
—I thought he'd get away, said Charlo.
—It might have been the queen, I said.
—Dead now anyway, said Charlo. — God love it.
—She's as sweet as Tupelo honey —
I love Van Morrison.
—Just like honey baby from the bee —
I love the music. They have speakers all over the house and no children; the house hardly needs cleaning at all. The music fills the time.
—You can take all the tea in China —
Put it in a big brown bag for me —
My cloth swoops over the sideboard. The brush swings around the toilet bowl. Van's my man. A walk-man would be nice, for the other houses and offices in the evenings. I've seen cheap ones. And the train on the way home; it would be nice to close my eyes and listen and drift.
—You can take all the tea in China —
Things come back when I listen. The music drags out memories. That's one thing about my life; it has a great soundtrack.
Wooden floors are in; people don't seem to like carpets any more. Bare floors; pretending they're poor. I don't like it. I'd like to come home to carpet, get the shoes off, let the feet sink in; lie on it, lie back and float.
—Sail right around — round the seven oceans —
Clontarf, Sutton, Killester and Raheny; they're the houses I clean. Raheny is the worst. You're only in the gate, you haven't looked up at the house yet, and you know: kids. The kids make shite of the house all week and I arrive on Fridays and clean it up so they can start all over again on Saturday. I think kids should clean up their own messes. Mine always did. Even Jack, even if he's actually making a bigger mess when he's doing it. It's unbelievable. Marker and paint on the walls and fridge, dirty clothes on the stairs, crumbs and bits of stood-on sandwiches all over the place. They mustn't do a stroke during the week. They wait for me. I even have to put the videos and CDs back into their boxes because the room would look untouched if I didn't. She doesn't work; she leaves the house when I arrive. She kind of sneaks; she looks guilty. So she should, the bitch. She gets home just when I'm leaving. I saw her sitting in her car once, outside their gate on the road, waiting for me to finish; I saw her from their bedroom window. Waiting for me. She's left me short a few times. —I'll see you next week. I forgot to get to the bank. It's not fair; I have to remind her the next week. I need that fuckin' money. It's Friday. She has no fuckin' idea. It's the only house I feel jealous in; the kids have everything. I know; I pick it up.
I come home past the school every day so I can pick up Jack. I'm often early but I
—She's as sweet as Tupelo honey —
Charlo sang that to me, down on his knees.
—She's an angel of the first degree —
He'd just stood on a bee. We heard the crunch and started laughing; on the playground tarmac. I can't remember when; I don't think we'd been going together that long.
—I thought he'd get away, said Charlo.
—It might have been the queen, I said.
—Dead now anyway, said Charlo. — God love it.
—She's as sweet as Tupelo honey —
I love Van Morrison.
—Just like honey baby from the bee —
I love the music. They have speakers all over the house and no children; the house hardly needs cleaning at all. The music fills the time.
—You can take all the tea in China —
Put it in a big brown bag for me —
My cloth swoops over the sideboard. The brush swings around the toilet bowl. Van's my man. A walk-man would be nice, for the other houses and offices in the evenings. I've seen cheap ones. And the train on the way home; it would be nice to close my eyes and listen and drift.
—You can take all the tea in China —
Things come back when I listen. The music drags out memories. That's one thing about my life; it has a great soundtrack.
Wooden floors are in; people don't seem to like carpets any more. Bare floors; pretending they're poor. I don't like it. I'd like to come home to carpet, get the shoes off, let the feet sink in; lie on it, lie back and float.
—Sail right around — round the seven oceans —
Clontarf, Sutton, Killester and Raheny; they're the houses I clean. Raheny is the worst. You're only in the gate, you haven't looked up at the house yet, and you know: kids. The kids make shite of the house all week and I arrive on Fridays and clean it up so they can start all over again on Saturday. I think kids should clean up their own messes. Mine always did. Even Jack, even if he's actually making a bigger mess when he's doing it. It's unbelievable. Marker and paint on the walls and fridge, dirty clothes on the stairs, crumbs and bits of stood-on sandwiches all over the place. They mustn't do a stroke during the week. They wait for me. I even have to put the videos and CDs back into their boxes because the room would look untouched if I didn't. She doesn't work; she leaves the house when I arrive. She kind of sneaks; she looks guilty. So she should, the bitch. She gets home just when I'm leaving. I saw her sitting in her car once, outside their gate on the road, waiting for me to finish; I saw her from their bedroom window. Waiting for me. She's left me short a few times. —I'll see you next week. I forgot to get to the bank. It's not fair; I have to remind her the next week. I need that fuckin' money. It's Friday. She has no fuckin' idea. It's the only house I feel jealous in; the kids have everything. I know; I pick it up.
I come home past the school every day so I can pick up Jack. I'm often early but I
Similar Books
