Hoors? Yeah... Hoors. Prostitutes, Tarts, Hookers, Ladies of Negotiable Affection, call them what you will. For 8 years or so I lived in granite tenement. My Neighbours Were Hoors. Sadly for us all (!?) the brothel was closed down and I moved out of the area. I never did get around to writing about the court case though...

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Eight Days A Week (Cleaning the stairs contd.)

Following our chat about our neighbours (remind me to tell you about the naked guy), the nice guy next door went on upstairs for a nice cup of coffee.

I continued battering about on the stairs with my brush and mop in a vague attempt to get them clean. I was almost at the ground floor, my rubber gloves now a dirty shade of pink and my attractive headscarf at a slightly disheviled angle.

And I can now positively say that Cockney Hoors have been been knocked off the number-one-hoor Spot in my affection by... Liverpuddlian Hoors! (That's the ones from Liverpool for those of you not in the know).

A beautiful Amazonian Hoor (honestly, tall and smooth skinned and elegant) and a short, grinning, toothless, dumpy old woman with the general Nanny-Ogg look had just come through the door.

"Ello chuck!" Said Nanny, her eyes twinkling. "You're doin' a right grand job thur!"

I stood up and adjusted my headscarf, "Aye! Almost done, and it's good exercise"

The Amazonian Hoor gave me a big smile and said "Well it's lookin' just loovely! We're off to dew a bit of cleanin' ahrselves!"

Right enough, they were carrying Asda bags full of cleaning products. Off they went into the flat and after some happy Liverpuddlian banter I could hear the sounds of air freshener being liberally scooshed around the flat.

I'm delighted to be able to tell you that it was soon drowned out by the sound of The Beatles' Eight Days A Week.

(For as much as I love a clean hoor, I love a good stereotype even more.)

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