Brenda Gashwell: Cleaning Lady

BRENDA GASHWELL: CLEANING LADY

Brenda sat down for her third shit of the morning.

The opportunity to take regular toilet breaks was just one of the many perks of being a toilet attendant (or, to give it the proper neologistic title, a Sanitary Cleansing Operative) in The Ian Davis Centre, Retchford. Free bogroll within reason, daytime TV during quiet periods…

-Could be worse, Brenda thought out loud as she lit a fag. She’d had to stop that lad from Housekeeping- the one they took on even though he’d just come out the nick- from fixing the smoke alarm the other week. A nice lad, but thick as two short planks. No different to any of the youngsters nowadays. Baseball cap, trainers. A tracksuit, if they still call ‘em that.

-GNNNNNN, exclaimed Brenda as the first wave spattered the Armitage Shanks. –GRRRRR, she added.

They had that young girl in didn’t they? Couple of years back. Bone idle, she was. On her phone all the time. Never did a stroke. –You’re a toilet attendant! I says to her. –Not Jodie fackin’ Price! She left not long after.