Caravan Cleaning for Beginners
Well. Here I am, your friendly tarmac tester, slowly improving but still not 100%. The shoulder & ribs are mending faster than the head injury but give it time. Fell into a bit of self-pity and depression for a while but clawing my way back out now. Perhaps my next tattoo should be a phoenix rising from flames. What do you think?? Look good in monochrome on my right calf - yeah?? I'll think about it.
I'm still not able to return to my regular line of work but - like everybody else - I need to make a living. A month or so ago a mate told me his brother owns a holiday caravan site in the north of my county and, with the season coming on, he needed cleaners to get the 'vans ready. It's low pay (minimum wage), short hours, hard work and it's very temporary work - two weeks at most - so he always has trouble finding people.
But it is work. And it can be done by someone with only half a brain and short one paw. So I said I'd do it.
Getting there was fun. I'm not allowed to drive right now because of the effects of the head injury. (Not that I could physically even if I wanted to anyway.) So it meant buses. Three of them. And do they connect seamlessly?? Of course they don't. I tell you I could have walked the 60 miles or so quicker than those buses got me there. But eventually I got there. In pain, coach sick (I'm not good on buses over long distances) and tired before I even started working.
It's physical work, yeah, but not difficult so I quickly got into my stride. Once I'd mastered using a mop one handed and coping with a scrubbing brush with my left hand I was well away. Piece of cake really. Even the difficulty of scrubbing one of those tiny caravan shower & toilet rooms with your "wrong" hand wasn't too challenging. Flip the door closed, crouch and scrub. Easy. I thought to myself. Money for old rope. Don't know what the fuss is about.
What's that old line about arrogance and falls??
Did you know it's actually possible to lock yourself in a caravan toilet cubicle??
Nope, neither did I.
And that Murphy's Law positively guarantees that if you're going to do that it will be at exactly the moment that the supervisor has gone for more cleaning supplies, and taken the other cleaner - the only other person for five miles in any direction - with him. With the added inconvenience that you're in a "dead zone" and there is no signal for any mobile phone network.
So there I was. Somehow when the door had closed the lock had engaged and it wouldn't budge. I could not get it unlocked no matter what I did, or what colourful and highly improbable activities I invited it to perform, or the equally colourfully descriptive names I applied to it. Which left me there. Trapped in a tiny cubicle with nothing but a bucket of bleach and a scrubbing brush. Nothing else. Not even a roll of toilet paper let alone a handy screwdriver.
I would have hurled the brush at the wall in anger except that there wasn't enough room to fully extend my arm let along throw anything. I looked at the minuscule flap in the wall that they laughingly call a window. For a long moment I contemplated it, judging the gap, measuring the relative sizes of it and me. Not a good match. Even I'm not daft enough to try to wriggle through that small a space.
Well - okay - yes, I am daft enough to do that. But only when both arms work. Fortunately for whatever small scraps of dignity I may still possess, I wouldn't dream of trying it with only one functioning arm.
A close examination of the lock showed me the key to the problem - a very small screw was loose. Yeah - right - a screw loose - story of my life really. If I'd had a small screwdriver I would have been fine. But I ask you - who takes a screwdriver to clean a bathroom?? Not for the first time in my life I cursed the fact that I'm a nail biter. If I'd been some cute femme with polished nails my pinkie finger would have been perfect. Not that a cute femme would have risked chipping the polish that way. Of course, if I'd been a cute femme with polished nails I'd never have been cleaning the caravan in the first place.
It didn't take long to search the room to see if there was anything I could use to escape - about point two of a second - and I didn't have to move to do it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. As the Americans say. Nada. Zip. Bupkiss.
Ah hah!! Inspiration struck. Zip!! The little pull-tab on the zip of my jeans was just the right size. Perfect!! I could use it to tighten the screw.
There followed about 10 minutes of struggling, standing on tiptoe, looking for all the world as if I were humping the door handle while attempting to get close enough to the door to get the tab to work. And then trying to work out how to turn the zip round.
Finally common sense sneaked up the waste-pipe and clipped me round the ear. Take the damn' jeans off first you pillock!! (I did say I'd had a head injury from my accident, didn't I?? Well that's my excuse anyway.) So I took the jeans off, scrunched them into a bundle and began tightening the screw.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to turn a tiny screw with a bundled up pair of jeans?? I mean... no go on... you try... see how well you do. Three-quarters of an hour later the screw bit home. Not before time either - I was starting to develop claustrophobia in there and having visions of archaeologists, centuries from now, finding my withered, semi-naked corpse and wondering what arcane ritual my religion practiced that required its followers to stand in a bathroom with their trousers wrapped around one arm.
Relieved beyond all measure to be free at last, I jammed the handle down and threw myself at the door to open it. I was a wee bit too enthusiastic with that move. The door flew open and I couldn't stop myself from crashing through - just as the other two arrived back from their errands.
They'd entered the 'van in time to see me come flying through the door, bootless, clutching my jeans in my good arm and dressed in a rather fetching pair of pale-blue boxers with little red and green aeroplanes on them (they were a gift, okay, my usual style is suave, sexy and sophisticated). Anyway, there I was flying through the door to land head first in a bucket of soapy water.
The boss said it was the best laugh he'd had since his wife left home. I think that was a good thing but I'm not totally sure. He also said I could come back and clean the 'vans every year if I wanted, because I'd made his day. I told him not unless each bathroom came with a little glass box containing a screwdriver as a standard fitting.
I bet you're laughing at me too. Not fair. I was traumatised, I tell you. Totally traumatised. I may never be able to stay in a caravan again. Oh - wait - I don't caravan do I?? That's a relief. Okay - you can laugh. But take my advice - if you stay in a caravan always take a screwdriver to the toilet with you - you just never know....
Ze
Damn but what I wouldn't give to see those boxers. I do believe I'd be prepared around you and always have a camera handy.
Tamara
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