Thirteen
Kit and I cleaned the windows in the morning and it wasn’t as much fun as I’d thought it would be when I was a child watching him and Pa. The wind nipped at my damp hands, still sore from last Friday. It was tedious and it definitely wasn’t climbing. It was hanging off the end of a rope and being hauled up and down by Kit. Anyone could have done it. It was washing down the glass with a very wet cloth, then swishing the water away with a rubber-bladed tool, and finally polishing with a dry cloth that rapidly became damp. I didn’t have enough hands to hold everything so I was endlessly juggling stuff in and out of the bag Kit had given me to tie round my waist. And every few windows or so, he dropped me to the ground so I could rinse my cloth before hoisting me back to the top.
Be
