The window pain…

Two toiling window cleaners came calling the other day – and, as usual, in a trademark move that will forever mystify me, they decided not to bother knocking the door, and instead, crossing their fingers and hoping I was clothed, set about their business.

Reclining on the sofa at the end of last week, basking in the freedom that comes with a Friday off, I was lying up slick, a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

Comfortably cushioned in that unmatched feeling enjoyed by those who reside at home while the rest of world is at work, I was in a state of mellow bliss.

“Jesus, this is hard to beat,” I said to myself, giving my thumb a big lick, and happily flicking over to the next page.

Then, out of nowhere, like thunder on a sunny day, a big squeaky, sloshing sound broke the peaceful silence.

“WHAT IN THE…” I exclaimed involuntarily.

Before my mind had time to summon a vulgarity suitable for the situation, I had located the source of the tranquility-trashing sound.

“Ye scared the absolute dung…”

As the suds ran down the window, racing towards the sill in thick strings of white foam, there the window cleaner appeared, and him putting the big I-swear-I-cannot-see-you-sitting-there-reading-your-book-and-drinking-your-tea head on.

“Aye ye can,” I said under my breath, my eyes narrowing on him. “You can see me just as well as I can see you.”

But window cleaners are like poker players…

Maintaining an unfaltering expression that was at once neutral, vacant, oblivious and pleasant, he had the windows washed and polished in a matter of minutes.

Then he was gone – the only evidence he was there at all being the gleaming glass and my racing heartbeat.

“Some job,” I had to admit, admiring the streakless, stainless windows, “but why don’t ye just knock? Everybody else knocks… why don’t the window cleaners just knock?”

And it is a question that has lingered in my mind ever since.

Because, in my experience at least, this not knocking carry on is a strange, mysterious, and borderline creepy custom that is exclusively peculiar to the pane-polishing profession.

Where even close family members give you a few warning taps – just in case, like – the window cleaner announces his arrival with the unceremonious slap of a sponge on your window.

Now, I was only reading my book, but there are plenty of other, more private pastimes I could have been engaged in when I noticed that a set of unwanted eyeballs were lurking about two inches on the other side of the glass.

Privacy is not an inalienable right, but it is a fundamental one, and it is what affords us the freedom to be ourselves in our own homes, away from the eyes of public judgment.

Perhaps you are a domestic nudist? Maybe you like sitting on your bed, drinking tins of cider and smoking fags? Or maybe you just do not want some strange man peering in the window while you are peeling the spuds?

I do not know. And, if I am honest, the lack of sense and rationale behind their aversion to knocking raises suspicions…

Now, boys, I am not asserting that you are nothing but a bunch of voyeurs who have been drawn to your profession by the potential for perversion it affords, but what lies behind your reluctance to hit the door a few knocks and, you know, just warn your customers that you will soon at point blank range be peering through their kitchen, bathroom and bedroom windows?

So, window cleaners, fair play to you all, and thanks for helping the light shine in and our eyes see out. However, give us a couple of knocks the next time you call round, otherwise it is just a matter of time before we end up sharing a moment that we both wish we hadn’t.