As soon as I opened the door I knew what day it was. Not just Tuesday, but Stairsday. Not just Stairsday, but Inasday. So not only would all our stairs and landings get the best, most thorough, dowsing and sudsing and mopping they'd get for the next ten weeks, but we could savour the floor show as well. Until Inasday returned again.
There were the sounds that were common to every Stairsday. A metallic drag of the bucket, the dripping wheeze of the mop being squeezed dry and the slosh as it landed on stone fully water replenished, the swish of mop on step, the grunt of carrying the bucket up each flight. And then there were the sounds unique to Inasday. A blast of tinny sound from the shouldn't-even-be working-anymore cassette player, the confidently off-key soprano accompaniment from the mop wielder, and the rhythmic clatter of shoes on well worn walkways.
Ina was (probably, maybe) somewhere in her seventies. Ina was a dancer. Ina had probably always been a dancer. Not a pro, not even a gifted amateur, just a compulsive, joyful, foot shuffler and tapper. I sat on the top step, knowing I had to get on and get out, knowing I wouldn't move until Ina was in sight, so I could partake in the pleasures of her dance and experience the vicarious joy she spread. Knowing I'd get told off for walking across her freshly swabbed surfaces, knowing she'd playfully threaten me with the mop at first, but then grab my arms and birl me round to share in her rapture. I listened to Davy Jones and Ina duet on Daydream Believer, I felt my toes unable to resist joining in, and I knew today would be a good day. An Inasday.
