Each shift begins the same way; a cheery ‘Alright!’ to the security guard who sits behind the vast sweep of the reception desk as we write our names in the signing in book. This is followed by a quick troop across the marbled floor of what I will later learn is called an ‘atrium’ until we reach the Cleaner’s Room which is behind the lifts at the back of the ground floor.

In it, we find our supervisor; Lorraine, and her second-in-command; Leah. Lorraine is slim as a pin with lustrous dark hair and the ability to both charm and scare the shit out of us with a single look. Leah, can be equally as fearsome but is closer to us in age and has hair that belongs in a Studio Line advert – it is coiffed, tinted and sprayed to perfection. I want it.

In this room, everybody smokes. Even the people who don’t smoke. There are no windows and no way we’re going to keep the door open so if you’re breathing; you’re smoking. The flavour du jour is B&H. Something about those gold packets that makes you feel like you’ve got a bit of class and the scent you get as the foil yields from a fresh pack of 20 is pretty hard to beat. The sharing of smokes and gossip is a form of bonding, even if your clothes do stink right through to the next shift.

After a quick briefing on what needs to be paid attention to (skirting boards, phone receivers, don’t wipe the monitors) we’re off to our floors. We all get one and we all have our favourites. Each comes with its own special cupboard within which are stored hoovers, dusters and numerous bits of graffiti designed to get our friends in trouble by writing each others’ names:

‘Lisa woz ere’

‘Tina licks tabards’

‘Billie eats the Director’s biscuits’

Gloves are donned, tabards slung over shoulders unless we hear Lorraine is coming which means putting them on properly to avoid a right bollocking. Not that anyone would mistake us for staff – I mean, it’s not like an insurance underwriter would willingly clean shit from the floor of the ladies toilet (and it’s always the ladies toilet) unless they had a particularly niche kind of kink.

The work in itself is boring. And dirty. Lorraine checks under desks and behind doors to make sure we’ve cleaned every possible inch of carpet. She teaches us that a bucket of hot water will sink the stubbornest floater and advises us to make sure we carefully place the ashtrays in the bottom of a bin liner before tipping it out. She fights our corner when we’re accused of nicking the biscuits (we didn’t, it was the Tipp-Ex thinner we were after) and kicks our arses for answering phones that ring outside of office hours and pretending to be the secretaries. She shows us a bit of what it’s like to be a working woman too and we love her for it.

But love Lorraine as we do, we have got to alleviate this boredom. And that means playing some games of cat and mouse. Pulling a prank on your friend is one thing, but getting away unscathed and undetected is quite another. Hole punches are tipped out regularly and liberally – sometimes in the style of Hansel & Gretel breadcrumbs, at others a massive pile which will lay unnoticed until two minutes before you’re due to finish your shift.

Others sailed more closely to the wind – polish on a toilet floor intended for one friend can go horribly wrong when a woman in court shoes twists her ankle in an ill-judged decision to go for a wee when there is quite clearly a ‘Toilet Closed’ sign on the door. The anticipation of silently crying with laughter is replaced by a flash of pure adrenalin as you pray to god the woman hasn’t ripped her pencil skirt. Or her Achillies tendon…

But my favourite is the Long Game, something in which I am proud to have earned my Lieutenant’s Stripes. It began when I found a stack of publicity photos belonging to a Group Director inexplicably placed in a bin. A4 in size, the glossy black and white finish gave the man in question a matinee idol air – I knew precisely what I would use them for, and who I was going to target. I took out a black marker pen, and hatched my plan.

For the next month, my friend received a series of nonsensical ‘gifts’; a box of pens from the stationary cupboard, a pack of McVitie’s biscuits, a broken office phone. Each came with a picture of the director addressed to her, signed off with “your secret admirer”. I used to wait for the discovery of these presents with all of the longing of a child waiting for Christmas, trembling with excitement at the utterance of those words:

‘He’s sent me something again!’

My friend asks whether we should get Lorraine involved and I crumple and confess. It was beautiful while it lasted.

*****

This is an extract from my current work in progress: Absolute Scenes. A book that will aim to capture what it was like to grow up on a council estate in the ’80 and reclaim and reflect some of the joy of working class culture.

All scenes are based on real events that took place in my life. Names and some of the details are changed to protect the identities of those who really *don’t* want to be identifiable in the recollections of someone with a history of sharing too much information.

Like my style? Wonder what I sound like off the page? Check out my new social mobility showreel:

Want to book me to speak? Get in touch 🙂