Hello, boys and girls! My name is Kate Rosales, I am the proud mother of a boy (9) and a girl (6), and I live in beautiful, fabulous Greenwich, London. Keep in mind that this is my first foray into blog posting, so if you find my ramblings chaotic, let’s agree it is because of inexperience.
I was born and raised in London, but my parents were immigrants from war-torn El Salvador. They arrived in the UK in the mid-80s and settled in Lambeth, finding a vibrant and welcoming Latino community. My mother was already pregnant with my older brother and arrived on the scene four years later. We were (and still are) a very close-knit family, and my parents are still fiercely proud of their Salvadorian heritage, particularly Mom, which brings me closer to the topic of this whole blog.
I must have been twelve or thirteen when I realised my family was a bit different from those of my best friends and classmates, most of them English. Not that I was discriminated against in any way – quite the contrary. But my parents’ values seemed slightly different from what I observed when visiting my best friends’ homes.
The most apparent difference was my Mom’s lifestyle. She felt most comfortable and at ease while being at home. The space within our small Lambeth apartment was her undisputed kingdom, and no one – not even Dad, could question her authority on all things domestic. She relished being a housewife – cooking, cleaning, growing flowers, and thinking of creative ways to make our home more beautiful and comfortable. My best friends’ moms almost unanimously spoke of their house chores as burdens and nuisances. They had their careers and hobbies, book clubs and even charities, and cleaning and cooking were a waste of time. There could not have been a more stark contrast in worldview.
I would have to disappoint you if you expect this contrast to have turned into some inner existential conflict. I loved and respected my Mom so much, and I was incredibly proud that she felt comfortable in her own skin. Moreover, I thoroughly inherited her passion for home order and anything related to it. While my teenage friends were coming up with cunning and creative plans to avoid cleaning their rooms or doing any chores, I was more than happy to help Mom clean the windows or dust the living room.
Shortly after graduating from high school, I finally had my epiphany. Why choose between a career (what my father insisted on) and being the perfect housewife (as my Mom hoped) when I could combine them? If 90% of my friends were a sample of how the general population felt about home cleaning, thousands of people would be willing to pay someone else to do it. All I had to do was get the proper qualifications, survey the job opportunities, and pick the best option.
The first part of the plan turned out to be surprisingly easy. I signed up for a few professional cleaning courses and crushed them. Here is a funny story: a window cleaning instructor at one of the biggest London contractors thought I was a spy sent by one of their competitors to steal their course (I promise the write a separate blog post on that!). There was nothing I could do or say to convince her otherwise – so I had to sign up for another course.
The second part of the plan was a bit more tricky. I had to choose between working for a big company or being self-employed. Maybe it was the fact that I was in my early twenties or some hereditary rebellious streak in my character – but I chose the latter. I planned to cover as much of the South Bank as possible – Lambeth, Southwark, Bermondsey, and Rotherhithe, probably as far as Deptford and Greenwich. I knew it would be a struggle at first, but I wanted to give it a try.
Gosh, was I ever wrong! I had hoped to have enough work to make ends meet so that in a year or two, I could build a network of regular customers and really get it going. Instead, when I put my ad on a local forum board, my phone started ringing within three days. It wouldn’t stop for the next two years. Had I struck a gold mine? Was it pure luck?
To this day, I have no answer. Some of my customers admitted they felt more comfortable with a self-employed cleaner who charged them less than the big contractors who always paid additional fees. Others liked the fact that I am local and represent the community. Still more were customers of Latin American descent, proud that one of their own was doing well in the London jungle. Either way, I was flooded with calls and booking requests, so I had to roll up my sleeves and go head-first into my adventure.
I confess the next eighteen months are something of a blur. I was working between 55 and 70 hours per week, constantly rushing between appointments – in a nutshell, having the blast of my life. Then, something completely unexpected happened. I was helping my brother with organising his birthday party when one of his colleagues stopped by. My brother is a Math teacher in a Greenwich primary school, and his colleague was teaching chemistry. He had just returned from a UN teaching stint in Nepal (Come on! Does it get any more perfect than that?!) and was re-entering everyday London life.
I never had a chanceā¦ That handsome devil stole my heart in a minute with his clumsy charm and unapologetic intelligence. We were married six months later, and then my baby monkeys came into this world.
In between, I pushed the pause button on my cleaning career.
But now that both my kids have started school, I am slowly getting back into business. Hence this blog is “my third wheel of getting back into cleaning”. And I invite you to join me on my return!