The day is the same as most others, the sky is grey and blue, the air cold and biting against my legs.  I am going to work at 6 in the morning.  The two hour job is cleaning a supermarket, thought Im not too sure what this job is meant to be, I just do what Im told to do.    My hands look old, dried by the polish they tell me to use, dried into the wrinkles of my grandmother.  She was a scrubber too, scrubbing Glasgows steps.  I wonder what she would make of all this, or what my mother would make, her who told me that I should always remember I was middle class.  That meant something when I was a child.  Now no one cares what your parents do, if you voice their profession it gets you cold stares and colder hearts.  It brings back memories of childhood boosting, My dads better than yours.  But now our dads arent better than each other, they are all remarried and have better kids than us.  My dads just had his first son, a month before my 28^th birthday.  It hits home that I need to have a kid soon before Im too old.  I wonder if my step-brother and my child were playing together, would they fight over whos parents were best?

I am proud of being a scrubber.  I work for my money.  Yes I have a grant for the studying, but I work hard for the extra niceties of my life.  But I am not proud of earning the money, I am proud that I have my feet in too lands, university and reality.  Too many of these ivory tower inhabitants have forgotten what it feels like to do physical work at 6 in the morning.  But Im going home now, Im tired and neighbours will be on the TV soon.