Thursday, February 28, 2019
A Bundle of Shirts
Yesterday's bizarre experience -- I seem to have at least one a day -- went like this:
As I set out for work, I gathered up all of Dave's and my dress shirts that needed laundering. I usually don't wash our nice shirts, because we don't have an iron and besides, I hate ironing and I'm terrible at it. So I take them to the cleaners on the high street and have them washed and pressed. I've been going to this same cleaner as long as we've lived in West Hampstead -- so, five years.
I walked into the shop and there was a young woman at the counter who I've never seen before. I greeted her and said I had shirts for laundering and pressing.
"OK, shirts for dry cleaning," she said.
"No," I replied, "not dry cleaning. Just laundering."
"Oh, we don't do that."
I looked her in the eye and said, "That can't possibly be true. I have this done here all the time."
"No, we don't do this here," she said. "Only dry cleaning."
Without another word I picked up my shirts and left, and went to the cleaners down the street, where they were perfectly happy to launder my shirts.
I'm sure that woman is new, or maybe just filling in for the one who's normally there, but good grief! I am not going to argue my way into being allowed to spend money in someone's business. And why on Earth would I want to dry clean a plain cotton dress shirt, and contaminate the world with all those toxic chemicals, when I could just get it washed?!
My enthusiasm for that cleaner has been waning for a while, for a number of reasons. I might switch to the other one permanently.
(Photo: A mural on the Isle of Dogs, a couple of weeks ago.)