Doing my dorm job the other night, I realised that I actually quite enjoy the task of mopping. I find it very therapeutic, calming. There isn’t much technique required – there’s pretty much one way to mop. Possibly two, or three, but it’s really very simple. Even the word – “mop”, “mopping”, “mopped” – they’re all very … domestic.
I swept the fifteen stairs and landing all the way down to the downstairs, and then swept that too. Then I went to the laundry room, got a bucket and a mop, and went back up to the top of the stairs to begin.
As I slushed and sloshed the soggy raggedy ends of the mop along each step, I wondered how many other girls had mopped these stairs before me. I thought about how many feet had walked up and then down these rather ugly brickish-coloured tiles.
I like mopping…
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