Early Mornings and Quiet Streets
It’s just gone five when I leave the flat. The sky’s still dark, and the streets are quiet except for the odd fox giving me the side-eye. Neasden’s not exactly the place that gets love poems written about it, but I’ve grown into it. Used to think I’d get out, find something glitzier, maybe manage a gym or open a pub. But here I am. Boots laced up, mop handle in one hand, flask of tea in the other—and I wouldn’t trade it.
I head down the high street, where the shop shutters are still drawn and the kebab wrappers from last night’s late rush are blowing about like tumbleweeds. I nod to Dinesh at the paper shop—he’s always first to unlock. There’s a strange kind of peace before the morning traffic kicks off, before the school run, before the bin trucks come through groaning like they’ve got a hangover.
Homes and Characters Behind Every Door
My first job’s in one of the old tower blocks off Chartley Avenue. Been coming here a while now. The lift’s been dodgy since before Christmas, so I lug my kit up five flights like a mountain goat with buckets. Inside, it’s Mrs Khan’s place—she always puts the kettle on before I even get my gloves on. She chats about her kids in Luton, her aching back, the neighbour’s noisy parrot. I nod, sweep, mop, wipe. Her windows haven’t seen a cloth in years, so I give them a go even though she didn’t ask. She smiles like it’s the best thing anyone’s done all week.
Once, I scrubbed down her old kitchen floor till it shone like a mirror. She got teary-eyed and gave me a tin of Quality Street she’d been saving since Eid. That kind of thing sticks with you.
Kitchens, Chaos, and Chocolate Spirulina Bars
Later, I’m over at a flatshare near the station. Three lads in their twenties, all obsessed with protein shakes and gaming. Their kitchen’s a health hazard. I’ve told them before—washing-up liquid isn’t optional. Still, I like them. They’re always friendly, always offer me biscuits. Even if they once handed me a protein bar like it was a treat. Ever tried a chocolate and spirulina protein bar with your tea? Don’t.
Their fridge was once so bad, I had to bin a Tupperware that looked like it had grown a second ecosystem. But they laughed about it, said I’d saved them from a science experiment.
No Judgement, Just Elbow Grease
Every day’s different. You’ve got the hoarders, the lonely pensioners, the single parents running on fumes, the city boys who still can’t figure out how a vacuum works. But I’ve learnt not to judge. People live how they live. I come in, do my bit, and leave things a little better. That’s the job. No medals, no spotlight, but it matters. More than I ever thought it would.
I remember one bloke in particular. Lived on the top floor of a block that overlooked Brent Reservoir. He never said much—just pointed at what needed doing, then disappeared into his bedroom with his headphones on. Took me a few weeks to realise he’d been let go from his job, and the cleaning was one of the few things keeping any rhythm in his week. One day I came in, and he’d left a note on the counter. Just said, “Thanks for making the place feel less miserable.” That one stayed with me.
Reading the Room with a Mop in Hand
You start noticing things when you clean for a living. How grime clings hardest in corners. How sunlight hits a polished surface. How a home says more about a person than any conversation. Some houses shout chaos. Some whisper sadness. Others—like Mrs Mistry’s—are full of warmth, even if the carpets are past saving. I don’t just scrub surfaces. I read the room. Literally.
Mrs Mistry always has incense burning, and Bollywood tunes on the telly. Once, her grandson tried to teach me a few dance steps while I was mopping the hallway. I nearly dropped the mop laughing.
Sometimes, I catch myself humming. Just a low tune while I mop or spray. It’s funny—I never did that back when I was throwing punches in the ring. Back then, it was all noise and adrenaline. Now, there’s rhythm in routine. There’s calm in the rub of a cloth, the whirr of the vacuum, the way the air smells different once everything’s wiped down.
Lunch Breaks and Local Sights
I take a break near Neasden Lane, sitting on a wall with my ham sandwich and a can of ginger beer. Traffic’s picked up. Someone’s dog’s barking two streets over. I see kids heading to school, uniforms scruffy already. It’s not glamorous, this little patch of northwest London, but it’s mine. I’ve worked every road, every estate, every shopfront. I’ve seen it in rain, snow, blazing sun, and that weird fog that smells like fried food and bus fumes.
There’s a mural by the tube station—faded now, but still showing kids playing cricket in the park. I helped the council clean up the station toilets once. Glamorous? No. Necessary? You bet.
Becoming a Part of the Routine
There’s pride in being part of the fabric. You clean the same shop every Tuesday, and the manager starts chatting to you about his mother-in-law. You empty the bins in the same office building every Thursday, and the receptionist starts saving you biscuits. You become a fixture. A part of people’s routines. And in this world, that counts for a lot.
I’ve got a little whiteboard at home. Nothing fancy—just something I picked up from the pound shop. I use it to scribble down jobs, but also notes. Reminders like “Buy more gloves” or “Call Derek re: Thursday”. Sometimes, I write stuff that’s not about work. Like “Be kind to yourself.” Or “Keep going.” Doesn’t matter if no one sees it. It’s for me.
The Unexpected Satisfaction of Honest Work
The aches still come, mind you. My back’s not what it was, and my knees sound like someone’s stepping on crisps. But it’s worth it. I sleep well. I eat better than I used to. I’ve got stories. And I’ve got purpose.
Cleaning Neasden wasn’t the plan. But it’s where I found my footing again. It’s where I learnt that hard work isn’t a punishment—it’s a sort of blessing, if you let it be. And it turns out, I’m good at it. Not just the wiping and scrubbing, but the listening. The noticing. The showing up.
So yes, it’s dust and sweat, and occasionally tears—mine or someone else’s—but it’s honest. And in this part of town, honesty still shines brighter than polish.