Monday: Launderette
Monday morning in the Launderette. One lot of clothes on warm. The other on hot. I’m sitting by the tumble dryers reading The Times.
The door crashes open. A red headed man lurches in with a self-assured woman. He’s swigging from a can of Kestrel super-strength lager. She’s carrying the washing.
“‘Ere,” shouts Lager as he pitches forward towards the service counter. “You got any washing powder?”
“Don’t shout,” shouts his companion.
“I’m not shouting,” yells Lager.
They get the washing in and woman leaves. Lager sits on a ledge and drinks. I get on with the tumble drying.
After a while he gets bored and leaves. Twenty minutes later he’s back, without drink. I look up to see him draped over the top of a large washing machine. There’s a strange whirring noise, as though he’s using a small drill to chip sludgy powder from the tray.
It’s not a drill. It’s a toy hamburger. He winds it up again and again and drunkenly watches it hopping on its plastic feet. Now and again he reaches for his mobile phone and puts it away, muttering “Fucking woman. Where are you?”
Wednesday: Newsagent
Queuing to buy a magazine. Two teenage girls in front of me. Cheap jewellery and clothes permeated by the smell of fast food. Two Orthodox Jews pass us from behind. The girls look at each other.
“Cccccnnnnnggt,” splutters one like a pig blowing its nose. She makes corkscrew gestures at the side of her head, tracing the line of imaginary peyos.
“Ffffnnngggtt,” snorts the other and they laugh.
They reach the head of the queue. The first, piggish girl addresses the shopkeeper whilst texting on her mobile phone.
“Child travelcard.”
“Do you have ID?”
“Don’t have no ID”
“Then I can’t sell you a child travelcard.”
“Fucking cunt,” yells pig features and she and her friend storm out.
“Did you hear that?” the shopkeeper asks me.
“Yes.”
“She called me a fucking cunt.” It’s all part of a normal day for the shopkeeper, but he doesn’t see why he has to put up with it.
“I know. I don’t see that you can do much about it, sadly.”
“She called me a fucking cunt!”
“I know. Never mind.” Pause. “Have a nice day!”
We laugh. Thankfully not everyone’s a fucking cunt.
Wednesday: Bus
Lower Clapton. Top deck of the 254. Three girls and a mother. Phone rings. Mother answers, speaks, ends conversation.
“That’s Leanne. She’s just got her phone bill. Two hundred pound!”
“No way.”
“Yeah. Two hundred pound.”
“Does nan know?”
“Yeah. She’s not happy.”
They get out somewhere on the Upper Clapton Road. I look round and the man opposite is leaning out of his seat, with his head and shoulder dangling into the aisle. He’s about to tip over, and as I reach out to grab him he’s caught by the pregnant woman sitting behind me. She is beautiful.
“Are you all right?” she says.
“Aye,” says the guy, in the tones of central, eastern Scotland. “I’m sorry. I hasn’ae slept fae two days.”
At that he falls asleep again. The pregnant woman and I take it in turns to catch him.
“Why don’t you lean over the other side?” I ask, after about the fourth awakening.
“Aye. It’s so fuckin’ embarrassing. I got off a tube. Fell asleep and woke up in fuckin’ Uxbridge or somewhere.”
He falls asleep again. We reach Springfield and the pregnant woman, child and husband get off.
I catch the sleeper one more time.
“How far tae Manor House?”
“About 6 or 7 minutes.”
“Walking?”
“No. About 15 minutes.”
“I need some fresh air.”
He gets up, walks to the front of the top deck and peers out the window. He sits down again and falls asleep.
Someone else catches him as he tips into the aisle and it’s time for me to leave.
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Comments
I like this one… Particularly the short, evocative “she is beautiful” throwaway line…
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