At
the age of nineteen I left home to work for a religious charity in a different
part of my country. I never looked back. However, not being exactly
domesticated it was an initial period of adjustment. I remember my mother
suddenly (and somewhat guilt stricken) decided to teach me how to iron a shirt
the day before I left… I got used to doing up the buttons and putting it over
an ironing board and doing it section at a time. I soon learned to just manage
doing the bits that showed, collars and cuffs, and then switched to the then
delights of nylon drip dry shirts – garments that stuck to you and crackled
with static electricity each time you put them on.
But
the washing part was initially problematic. We were used to launderettes in
London, but the place I went to seemed to initially rely on thumping clothes
with boulders on the banks of the Thames. I had to bicycle a round trip of
twenty miles to another town each week with my washing on the back of the bike.
But then – trumpet sound – my new home finally opened a brand new shiny Launderette.
And
a key feature of the place was the automatic vending machine; an idea no doubt
imported from America. We had these machines – mainly drinks dispensers – at
swimming baths too I remember. At the swimming baths we used to buy a flimsy
cup full of what was optimistically described as Cuppa-Soup, but which turned
out to be Cuppa-Sludge, because the powder never seemed to dissolve, even
though the water was scalding enough to take the skin off the roof of your mouth.
But
in the Launderette, coffee was the staple. And at the age of nineteen I wrote a
poem. I have recently discovered an embarrassing cache of verse and worse and
there – haunting me from another life - was an opus entitled “A few lines on
Launderette Coffee Machines.”
Well,
you don’t think you are going to escape, do you?
He
placed his coin in the slot
And
turned the dial to FIVE;
And
waited for the “Piping Hot
Fresh
Coffee” to arrive.
The
mechanism started up.
His
sallow features cheered.
He
waited for the plastic cup,
But
no such cup appeared.
He
gave a wan, pathetic smile,
In
sadly comtemplating
The
coffee, milk and sugar, while
It
gurgled down the grating.
And
mused when he had seen enough
Upon
how strange one thinks it:
“Not
only does it make the stuff,
The
@%@% thing also drinks it!”
