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.

They say no two days are the same in this game, and that’s bloody true. You’d think mopping floors and scrubbing bogs would be a straightforward affair, but let me tell you—people are mad. Absolutely mad. And if you spend enough time cleaning up after them, you start getting a front-row seat to the kind of weirdness you wouldn’t believe unless you saw it with your own two eyes.

Take old Mrs Dunleavy from the flats near Neasden Station. Sweet lady, but completely off her rocker. The first time I knocked on her door, she made me stand there for ten minutes while she peeked through the spy hole, making sure I wasn’t some burglar in disguise. Eventually, she let me in, but only after making me swear on my mother’s life that I wasn’t with the council. Then, as I was dusting her shelf, she sat in her chair clutching a bloody frying pan like she was expecting me to turn on her at any moment. Kept muttering about how she knew “they” were after her. Never found out who “they” were, but I wasn’t about to ask. I just did my job and got out of there before she started swinging that pan.

Then there was the bloke in the big house over in Dollis Hill. Fancy gaff smelled like one of those posh candle shops. He had one rule—never, under any circumstances, touch the silver tray in the living room. Now, when someone tells you not to do something, you can’t help but wonder why. But I didn’t ask questions. I stuck to the kitchen, the bathrooms, all that. Then, one day, as I was vacuuming, I glanced at the tray. It had a stack of envelopes on it, all unopened. Bills, bank statements, you name it. Looked like they’d been sitting there for months. The bloke must’ve noticed me looking ‘cause he popped his head in and said, “It’s not mine to open.”

That was the day I started realising that cleaning ain’t just about dirt—it’s about people. People hiding things, people avoiding things, people living in ways you’d never expect. The cleaner always sees it all.

Speaking of odd jobs, you wouldn’t believe the state some people live in. I once walked into a flat where the bloke had been living entirely on takeaway. You think I’m exaggerating? Every surface—every single one—was covered in empty cartons and pizza boxes. I even found one in the bath. How does a person even end up like that? I don’t know, but he just shrugged when I asked. Said he was “too busy” to sort it out. Too busy doing what? Growing a bin collection in his own home?

And then there’s the ones who reckon you’re invisible. Had a couple once, young professionals, both working from home. I’d be scrubbing their kitchen sink while they were having a full-blown argument over whose turn it was to book the dog’s grooming appointment. Not a single glance in my direction, like I wasn’t even there. Makes you wonder—if they can ignore a six-foot-two ex-boxer in their kitchen, what else are they blind to in life?

Some jobs, though, they stick with you. There was this old fella, Mr Patel. Lovely guy, always made me a cuppa when I came round. Lived alone, but he wasn’t lonely—he always had the radio on and always had something to chat about. One day, I turned up and found the place quiet. No radio, no kettle boiling. I knocked, waited, knocked again. Eventually, the neighbour told me he’d been taken to hospital. Didn’t even get to say goodbye. I still think about him when I pass his street.

Then there was Dave. Now, Dave was a proper character. Lived in a studio flat with more junk than I’ve seen in some second-hand shops. You name it, he had it—broken clocks, half-mended radios, old newspapers stacked so high I thought they’d tip over on me. Every time I came over, he had some new scheme on the go. One time, he told me he was inventing a self-cleaning toilet brush. Another time, he swore he was breeding the “perfect” budgie by playing classical music to the poor thing 24/7. I once caught him trying to make toast on an iron. “Saves on washing up,” he reckoned. You’ve got to admire the creativity.

Then there are the hoarders. The ones whose homes are so crammed full of stuff you can barely move. I had a lady once who had floor-to-ceiling stacks of magazines from the 80s. Told me she was “keeping them for reference.” Reference for what? I have no idea. But I spent three hours just clearing a path from her door to her kitchen so she could actually reach her kettle without knocking over a tower of Cosmopolitan.

Of course, some people like to test your patience. Like the fella who used to follow me around his flat, watching my every move like I was planning to rob the telly. Or the woman who asked me to clean her bathroom then stood there and pointed out every single speck of dust I “missed.” I’m good, but I ain’t a magician.

But for every oddball, there’s someone who makes it worth it. Like Mrs Ibrahim, who insists on making my lunch every time I come round, even though I tell her I’m fine. Or young Jamie, a lad who lives with his nan and always helps me out, asking questions about cleaning like I’m teaching him the secrets of the universe.

Being a cleaner, you get a glimpse into lives most people never see. You step into their homes, their habits, their little private worlds. Some are messy, some are lonely, some are just plain bizarre. But at the end of the day, they’re all human. And I suppose that’s what keeps me going—knowing that, in my own way, I’m a part of their stories, even if they don’t realise it.

That, and the fact that I still can’t stand a dirty floor.

Life doesn’t care much for your plans, does it? One moment, I was in the ring, fists up, adrenaline pumping, crowds roaring my name. The next, I was just Pete Dawson—no title, no cheers, no purpose. The transition from boxer to cleaner wasn’t exactly one I’d dreamt of, but life throws you a few hooks, and you’ve got to decide whether to dodge or take them on the chin.

Letting Go of the Gloves

When I finally accepted my time in boxing was over, it felt like I’d lost more than just a career—I’d lost myself. For years, I’d been Pete “Big Pete” Dawson, the Neasden bruiser who could go toe-to-toe with anyone. But injuries and age don’t care about your reputation. My body was battered, my joints creaked like an old wooden door, and my head wasn’t as sharp as it once was.

The hardest part wasn’t just stepping away; it was figuring out what came next. Boxing wasn’t just a job; it was my identity. Without it, I felt like I’d been knocked out for good. But bills still came through the door, and I had mouths to feed. I spent months trying to figure out what I could do. My CV might as well have just said, “Can throw a decent left hook.”

It was a mate, Terry, who gave me the nudge I needed. Over a pint at The Crown, he said, “Why not give cleaning a go? It’s good money, mate, and you’re not afraid of hard graft.” At first, I thought he was having a laugh. Me, a cleaner? I was used to sweat and blood, not mops and buckets. But I wasn’t exactly drowning in offers.

My First Day

I’ll never forget my first cleaning job. It was in a posh house up in Hampstead. You know, the kind of place where the wine rack’s bigger than most people’s kitchens. They handed me a mop, pointed to a mess on the marble floor, and left me to it. I spent the next few hours terrified I’d scratch something worth more than my car.

At first, I felt like I’d hit rock bottom. I was scrubbing floors instead of stepping into a ring. But as the hours passed, something clicked. Cleaning wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. It reminded me of the gym—hard graft, showing up even when you didn’t feel like it, and getting stuck in.

By the end of the day, I felt something I hadn’t felt in ages—pride. The floors were spotless, and I’d done that. It wasn’t the roar of a crowd, but it was something.

Finding My Rhythm

There’s a skill to cleaning, more than I ever imagined. You’ve got to know what products to use on different surfaces, how to tackle stubborn grime, and even how to make a bed look like something out of a fancy hotel. I started watching YouTube videos, learning tips from the pros. I treated it like I’d treated boxing—study, practice, perfect.

Some jobs were tougher than others. I once cleaned a flat that looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Takeaway boxes piled high, mould in the fridge, and socks that could’ve walked out on their own. It was grim, but by the time I finished, it looked half-decent. That feeling of transformation, of turning chaos into order, reminded me of training a raw rookie into a fighter.

The Faces Behind the Mess

Cleaning isn’t just about the dirt; it’s about the people. You get a glimpse into their lives, whether they want you to or not. There was the elderly woman who’d sit in her armchair humming old show tunes while I polished her mantelpiece. Or the single dad trying to keep it together with three kids under six. Each house tells a story, and I’ve learned not to judge.

One of the strangest moments was cleaning for a young couple who worked in the City. Their flat was spotless, but they’d hired me to make it “hotel perfect” for a party. It felt odd, cleaning up before the mess even happened. But hey, it’s their money.

You also get the cheeky ones who think a cleaner’s invisible. I’ve walked in on all sorts—couples bickering, kids sneaking sweets, and one bloke who was stark naked because he’d “forgotten I was coming.” Never a dull day.

Boxing Lessons in Cleaning

It didn’t take long before I realised my boxing days had prepared me for this new chapter in ways I hadn’t expected. Cleaning, like boxing, is all about rhythm. You find your pace, whether it’s scrubbing a sink or dodging a punch. There’s strategy too—working smart, not just hard.

I started setting little challenges for myself: Could I clean the kitchen in under 30 minutes? Could I get that oven door looking brand new? It might sound daft, but those small wins kept me going.

And let’s not forget the physical side. Lugging vacuums, moving furniture, and scrubbing tiles is no walk in the park. It’s a workout in its own right, and I’ve got the callouses to prove it.

What Cleaning Gave Me

When I was boxing, I thought success was all about titles and trophies. But cleaning’s taught me that there’s dignity in hard work, no matter what you’re doing. It’s about showing up, giving it your all, and taking pride in a job well done.

That’s not to say I don’t miss boxing. Some days, when I’m in an empty house with only the sound of a hoover for company, I catch myself shadowboxing in the kitchen. The dream of setting up my own boxing club in Neasden is still there, burning quietly. One day, I’ll make it happen.

Until then, I’ll keep scrubbing floors, dusting shelves, and taking life one mop stroke at a time. Because whether it’s in the ring or in someone’s living room, it’s not about what you’re doing—it’s about how you do it. And me? I do it like a champ.

Boxing was my life for as long as I can remember. Neasden isn’t exactly famous for producing world champs, but in those gyms that smelled of sweat and ambition, I felt like I belonged. The sound of gloves smacking the bag, the shouts of encouragement from your trainer, and the sting of a well-placed jab—it all made sense to me. That ring was my world, my sanctuary. So, imagine my disbelief the day I realised it wasn’t going to be my world anymore.

It wasn’t some dramatic knockout or a final, glorious bout under the bright lights. No, it crept up on me, slow and quiet, like a bad injury that doesn’t heal right. I was sparring at a local gym—just a routine session. My opponent was a younger lad, maybe 23 or so, full of fire and hungry for glory. I could see it in his eyes: he wanted to make a name for himself by taking down “Big Pete,” the local hero with a decent record. Fair play to him; I’d probably have done the same at his age.

A Moment That Changed Everything

We were a few rounds in, and I was holding my own. I wasn’t out to prove anything, just keeping sharp. But then it hit me—not his fist, but the realisation. My reactions were slower. My punches lacked the same snap they used to have. I was fighting smart, sure, but my body wasn’t following orders the way it once did. And then, in the middle of the fourth round, he caught me. A right hook, clean on the jaw. I didn’t go down, but my legs wobbled just enough for the lads watching to notice.

That wobble, tiny as it was, felt like an earthquake. I finished the round and even landed a few solid punches of my own, but the seed was planted. Walking out of the gym that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was I losing it? Was my time in the ring coming to an end?

Facing the Truth

The truth hit me hard a week later, during a jog through Neasden. My knees were aching, my breath was short, and every step felt heavier than it should. I’d never been one to shy away from hard work, but this was different. This wasn’t about pushing through pain; this was my body telling me it had enough.

That night, I sat in my flat with a cold beer, staring at the wall and thinking about all the years I’d spent chasing boxing dreams. I thought about the wins that made me feel invincible and the losses that kept me humble. I thought about the lads I’d trained with and the coaches who’d believed in me. And then I thought about the future—what it looked like without boxing. It scared the life out of me.

Letting Go of the Gloves

Walking away from boxing wasn’t a decision I made overnight. I kept at it for a bit longer, convincing myself I had one more good fight in me. But deep down, I knew the truth. I was 36, not ancient by any means, but in boxing terms, I might as well have been collecting my pension. The younger fighters were faster, stronger, and hungrier. My body wasn’t bouncing back from training sessions like it used to.

The final nail in the coffin came during a local fight night. I was there as a spectator, watching some of the lads from my gym. One of them, a scrappy southpaw with a lot of potential, came up to me after his bout. He looked up to me, called me a “legend” of Neasden boxing. I laughed it off, but it got me thinking. Did I want to hang on until I became a cautionary tale? Or did I want to leave the ring with my head held high?

Starting Over

Leaving the ring wasn’t just about retiring from a sport. It meant redefining who I was. For years, I’d been “Big Pete the Boxer.” Without boxing, who was I? The answer didn’t come easy, but it started with taking whatever work I could find. That’s how I ended up cleaning offices and houses around Neasden. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work, and it gave me time to think.

At first, I hated it. Scrubbing toilets and wiping down desks wasn’t exactly the career I’d envisioned. But slowly, I started to see the value in it. Boxing had taught me discipline, and I applied that to my cleaning jobs. Show up on time. Do the work properly. Take pride in what you do, no matter how small the task. It wasn’t the ring, but it was something.

Finding Purpose Again

Even as I adjusted to my new life, boxing never left my heart. I’d pass by the old gyms and feel a pang of nostalgia. I’d hear about local fights and wonder what could have been. But instead of wallowing in regret, I started thinking about how I could give back to the sport that had given me so much.

That’s where the idea for Big Pete’s Boxing Club came from. Neasden has plenty of kids who could use the discipline and confidence boxing provides. I’ve seen too many young lads with potential waste it on the streets. If I could open a club, I’d have a place to share my knowledge and keep the spirit of boxing alive in our community.

Looking Ahead

The day I knew boxing was over for me wasn’t just the end of a chapter. It was the start of a new one. I may not be stepping into the ring anymore, but I’m still fighting—for a dream, for a future, for a way to keep boxing alive in Neasden.

Every mop I push and every floor I polish gets me closer to that dream. It’s not glamorous, but it’s my way of staying in the fight. And who knows? Maybe one day, a young fighter will walk into Big Pete’s Boxing Club, and I’ll see that same fire I used to have. Until then, I’ll keep working, keep dreaming, and keep fighting—just in a different kind of ring.