I hate to wash windows. I don’t like cleaning on the whole, but particularly I hate the mere thought of window-washing.
And now it’s spring. How do I know that? Oh, believe me, I do know! The snow on the ground doesn’t fool me a bit. The frost on the pavements in the morning doesn’t lure me to think the winter’s still here. Oh, no. It is spring.
The sun is hanging low all day, just at that particular height that lets every ray from that light yellow ball rush against my windows. The cold and bare sunlight hides nothing, it shows all the milky white, or should I say grey, spots on my windows. Looking at the windows makes me wonder, if I live in a house of ghosts (other facts speak for that, too…).
It’s time to wash the windows. I know, but I also know that I won’t do anything. I’ve managed once to live in a flat for five years without washing the windows. I must have that same strength now! Well, I did wash the windows two years ago, didn’t I?
I miss the place I used to live before. The flat was on the ground-floor and when it started to rain heavily, I took my umbrella and a wiper and went out. There I stood, in the rain, but not getting wet thanks to my umbrella, and wiped the windows, if not dry, at least clean.
It was simple and efficient.
Now I live on the third floor.
I’m waiting for the summer. The leaves turn big and green in the trees in front of my windows and the sun won’t bother me any more.