Laundry Life

I once drove a laundry van.  It was a summer job when I was a student in London and lived near the Initial Towels  depot in Clapton.  That would make it about 1973.

My first task, to warm me up for a proper round, was to take a van through central London to the Initial garage.  I was terrified by this journey, having previously only driven my mother’s Hillman Imp around the Hull suburbs.  At one stage, the sound of an ambulance looming resulted in my immediately panicking and screeching to a halt.  It was only when I wondered why it had also stopped and people were frantically waving that I spotted the accident on my left.

Once I had my own round it involved visiting a myriad of small businesses.  My job was to collect laundry and change roller towels.  The length of the loop left for drying hands depended on the friendliness of the customer.  Surly, rude types would barely have enough space to squeeze their hands behind the towel whereas those giving a cheery welcome would have an ample drying area.  Roller towels were popular in garages and workshops where the toilets would be plastered with pictures torn from girlie magazines, many adorned with encouraging slogans. They also got the tight towel treatment.

This seems a bit unfair as my assistant Lou, a large girl with a very loud voice, had a glad eye for handsome young black men.  It being summer, we would drive along with the sliding doors open which gave her plenty of opportunity to wolf whistle and shout sexist comments at these unfortunate youths.  Everyone who turned to look at the van always seemed to look at me as I tried to shrink behind the steering wheel.

The van boys as they were called, male or female, seemed to be a rum lot.  My friend, who got a job there with me, had a van boy who spent a lot of time taking heroin and sleeping on the laundry in the back of the van.  He was a good sort the rest of the time so she didn't like to grass him up.

The laundry.  That could be very grim.  People who have towels that don’t belong to them use them for awful things.  Wiping up sick, dogshit and various noxious substances as well as lesser crimes such as washing their cars.  There was a little row of cafes near Finsbury Park where each kitchen seemed to take you to another level of squalor.  They had baskets where they would hurl the tea towels, often thick with food detritus including raw meat.  We didn’t have gloves and, remembering the maggoty contents of those baskets now has made me stop typing and go into a sweat.

There were what appeared to be more salubrious places too.  One day I was covering a round in West Hampstead for a sick colleague and I stopped at a large Edwardian detached house to which I had to deliver a huge pile of fluffy white towels.  In the hallway, a most gorgeous man accompanied by an Afghan hound was standing next to a table on which there was a massive flower arrangement.  He  gestured at a door while speaking into the telephone on the table and never looked at me to notice I wasn’t his regular driver.  Why should he?  I was wearing a white coat, carrying towels and of no consequence whatever to this god-like being in his luxurious surroundings.

Opening the door, I marched on, peeping round the towels to see where I was going.  Before me was an indoor pool, full of naked men! I shouted in shock and dropped the towels, all the blokes panicked, jumping out of the pool in all directions and the Afghan hound ran in and bit me. 

The gorgeous man swept me into his office/ consulting room, assuring me he was a doctor and administered first aid.  Just looking into his smouldering eyes drove any thought of industrial injury claim right out of my mind.  Anyway you had to pretty well lose a leg in for that sort of thing those days so, bandaged up, I just continued with the round.

When, in September, it was time to go back to college I gave in my notice. To originally get the job you had to have applied for a permanent position.  The manager took me into his office and gave me a talk about what a great future I could have in the world of laundry.  I don’t know why I chose Art College instead.