BREAKING POINT

It’s official. I’m on permanent strike. After 68 years of drudgery I’m throwing in the tea towel, shredding the dusters - and the garbage guys can have my well-worn collection of mops, sponges et al.

I’ve been a house cleaner since I was 8 years young, after my mother was widowed and left with two children to support in the dismal post -war period. I was 6 when my beloved Dad passed; my youngest brother opened his eyes, ready to celebrate his 3rd birthday, just as my father closed his for the last time. He was 26.

But I’m not after sympathy- honestly I’m not. My life was no different than a lot of my classmates and after my father’s death

I had a short period of relative rest when my schooling was regular and mom had a meal waiting for me each day. But, once the ‘honeymoon period’ was over and my mother found work, I became nursemaid and official housekeeper. It’s only on reflection I come to realize how very dangerous some of my tasks were.

It was my responsibility to light the coal fire that fed the large black range which took up most of the room in the living area of our tenement apartment. Once that was blazing I made sure the fire guard was in place before I set the table for our evening meal. Then it was time for me to collect my brother from nursery school at 5pm.

My first morning task was to drop my brother off at the nursery before running to my own school before the 9.am bell stopped tolling. Anyone trying to sneak in after the bell was punished for tardiness and no excuse was acceptable in those days.

If my brother was sick ( he had frequent bouts of pneumonia) I had to stay away from school to look after him. I didn’t get the chance to finish my education until after I was married and the last of my own children were enrolled at school. I come from an age when there were members of the ‘school board’ patrolling the streets, on the lookout for stray, school - aged children who liked to play truant. Sometimes, if the absenteeism was chronic, they would visit the house, demanding to know the reason I was away from school.

By now, you probably get the picture. I had too much responsibility and no time for play, but such was the lot of many of my contemporaries and we did what needed doing. Today, many of the responsibilities thrust upon us from such an early age would be classed as a form of slavery or even child abuse.

Now that my own children and their children are fully grown adults, I’m getting a little sick of cleaning up after them. There’s no joy for me in seeing the house sparkling- I don’t get the chance to sit back and admire my efforts. I’ve decided some perverted terrestrial being, who is looking down on my home, waits until I’ve finished and then Bam! Through the door comes the first selfish occupant, completely by- passing the shoe rack and the coat hangers in the hall, dropping bags, brollies and sundry items like a tree in autumn drops its leaves. 

What’s more, I’m fed up stepping downstairs to a sink full of dishes every morning. Who wants to face cups clogged with last night’s hot chocolate, or half-eaten pizza slices and ketchup stained napkins? By the time I climb the stairs at the end of the day, to a six hour respite in the land of Nod, the ground floor looks like the aftermath of the Battle of Borodino. I get the feeling lately they are laughing at me. They don’t care a fig about the amount of hard work I’ve put into looking after their needs, but I only have myself to blame. I should have flown the coop and taken early retirement years ago.

In the past I have managed to escape for brief periods, but I always regretted it and always asked myself if it was worth the mountains of work that invariably faced me on my return. Somehow, it sucked all the good out of the vacation; it was as if I’d never been away.

Now, I’m in the third trimester of my life, the autumn of my years, left with maybe ten more productive years if I’m lucky- so I’ve decided I’m going on strike. I’ve made a pact with myself not to do any task I find soul-destroying, which means giving up the daily grind of dishes, laundry, cleaning, shopping and cooking. I’m giving myself the sack. There’ll be no severance pay awarded, since it was never a paid job, and there’ll be no farewell party to mark the end of my 68 years of dedicated service. It will be a quiet farewell, in fact, I’m not even giving them notice and I won’t be attending any speeches of protestation nor will I listen to endearments and false flattery in an effort to get me to stick with the old routine.

I’m not the type who needs flattery or gratitude, or even a thank you, but a respect for my efforts is something I demand in order to keep my sense of self-pride. To desecrate the area I have cleaned is tantamount to a slap in the face or a way of showing a lack of care.

Starting tomorrow, I’ll stay in bed, ( I’m smiling already) and I’ve already booked an appointment to have my hair styled and fake nails applied, a rare treat for my moisture starved hands. I’ve arranged to meet a friend for breakfast at one of the nearby restaurants, after which I’ll take a long walk, I think, and then maybe a trip to the library or my favourite bookstore.

Earlier today, I packed a suitcase and it will be picked up by a courier service in a day or two and shipped to my holiday destination in Europe. I intend to travel light. My airline tickets are booked and I’ve used some savings to upgrade myself to business class for the long journey. I intend to travel in comfort and not to skimp while I’m away. My conscience is staying behind for the duration.

Once my ‘dependants’ realize I mean business my needy adult children won’t be very happy, but I have a feeling my father will be smiling down on me- and for me, that is reward enough for my years of servitude.