Pearoast alert
But bugger me, it fits in nicely here:

Many moons ago, I had a summer job (between my first and second years at university) as a contract cleaner/landscape gardener. The London-based company I was working for subcontracted from a lot of councils and whatnot, cleaning up council houses so they were ready for new tenants, taking care of council-owned fields and gardens and that kind of thing.

They also had a number of contracts with the metropolitan police, which mainly involved maintaining the greenery in and around police stations. All in all, it was a smashing job which paid cash in hand, got me outside and even the cleaning jobs that we did weren't too bad (the majority of the work I did was on the gardening side).

Anyhow, one day I got my job sheet and was told that my partner and I were on a police cleaning job, which was very unusual - most cleaning jobs were council ones (where you basically went into some scummy council flat, bleached the fuck out of everything and left). On the promise from the boss of a £50 bonus each for the day, we were only too happy to leap into the van and head to the site, mind. We got there and were shown in by a nervous-looking young copper past some 'Police Cordon' tape - not a great start.

What I saw inside will live with me forever. A guy had suspected his wife of having an affair, so had taken justice into his own hands - courtesy of a shotgun. Over the breakfast table, he had shot her point blank in the head, splattering her brains all up the wall behind her. Now this had happened a few days ago. Forensics had been in and removed the body, and taken photographs and samples and all that jazz. But the bit that happens next, they never show you on CSI, do they? Some poor fucker has to clean the remnants up. And that's where we came in.

As I said, this was a few days after the crime and the immediate investigation of the scene had been completed. In the height of a London summer, the brains and blood of the unfortunate woman had become crusted onto the walls, and we ended up resorting to using wallpaper scrapers to effectively chisel her grey matter from the wall.

I was 19, I was scraping the stinking brains of a dead woman from the walls. It was inevitable. Barely ten seconds in, I hurled. EVERYWHERE. I had no idea what I'd eaten, but it was fucking irrelevant. I projectile vomited over and over and over again, all over the carpet, the wall, the kitchen surface and (of course) myself.

I then spent the next hour cleaning up my own sick, while my (stronger-stomached) partner sorted out the brains. And we both got our £50 bonus that day, even though I provided my own mess to clean, in true Keynsian-economics style. I bought him a pint at the end of the day out of my bonus, mind. Although I didn't feel like one myself, funny enough.

The following summer, I got a job in Asda. Much less distressing.
(Bappage, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 11:50, 5 replies)

Actually, CSI:Miami had a storyline that involved an ex-boyfriend of one of the CSIs
getting himself a job on the crime scene clean-up crew.

Thrilling, huh?
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 11:54, closed)

Haha, you beat me to it
Not that I watch that sort of thing, of course, but the missus likes it
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 12:03, closed)

Yes, that's my excuse, too.
I'm totally not gay for Horatio Caine. At all.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 13:43, closed)

Whenever Calleigh appears on screen
we now both break into Beaker-voices, going "Mimimimimimimimimimimi"
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 14:30, closed)

Haha!

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 19:05, closed)