“So, you’re a cleaner,” Mum said, a hint of contempt slipping into her tone. I kept quiet. Not because I had nothing to say, but because this time I decided to let it be. A cleaner, thenno more, no less.
Think about it: I wash the dishes, give the office coffee machine a good onceover, make sure there’s sugar and tea in the break room, tidy up stray tea bags and empty the bins. I don’t mop the floors or scrub the toilets, but does that really change the picture?
For Mum, absolutely not. She’s got that old belief drilled into her: if you tidy up, you’re a cleaner. Period. And, frankly, if I hadn’t moved to NewZealand, I probably would still feel that little internal ick about the joba vague, unconscious sense that it’s somehow beneath me. Its a childhood hangover: Its not respectable, People with degrees dont do that. Only a change of scenery started to sort the mess.
One day it clicked: sure, I can be a cleaner and still be someone with two university degrees, someone whose private consultancy once fetched £110 an hour. The catch? Im not fluent in the local lingo. But cleaning? I get it. Its become my bridge.
I remember my mentor saying, Feel ittheres something very feminine about it. It grounds you. Its not something to be ashamed of. And it hit me. At home I never feel embarrassed wiping dust off the mantelpiece or loading the dishwasher. So why should it become a source of shame once Im out of the house?
Whats truly astonishing is how people treat it here. In NewZealand, the boss greets the cleaner, asks how shes doing, joins her for a cuppa, inquires about her family back in England, and compliments the spotless kitchen. I stand there thinking, Ah, theres the respectno judgments attached.
I dont feel shortchanged. I feel like Im stepping onto the launchpad of a new path, and that gives me energy. Theres also a quiet pride bubbling up. Because if not for me, who would fetch that sparkling mug for your cappuccino?
