Call of nature [ca1985]
I left it for as long as I could this time but since I can't stand the thought of my socks and Y-fronts parading around under their own steam I've ended up back at the launderette again. It's getting late and it's dark outside so there's not the usual throng of slum mums and people who years ago would doubtless have been confined to insane asylums willing their washing to spin a bit faster so they can win the race for the last working dryer. I really do hate the fact that I can't wash all my clothes at once, including the ones I'm wearing. If only I had the balls to act like Nick Kamen in that Levis advert on the telly, looking cool and immaculately groomed as I casually remove my jeans and place them in the machine to the nostalgic strains of Marvin Gaye's 'Grapevine'.
Sadly, I'm much too self-conscious for that. I just sit here as I always do, wishing I'd thought to bring a book and wondering if there's anyone watching through that peep-hole in the door marked 'TAFF ONLY'. Whether the sign's been vandalised or some Welsh person has their own private suite of washing appliances I'm not altogether sure.
I'm busting for a pee now. I guess I could make a dash for home but that would be tempting fate. No doubt in my mind that if I left for more than a minute, the strange person who usually steals single socks would suddenly get all courageous and run off with my complete wardrobe. There's an alley behind the Laundromat, so I step hurriedly but cautiously out of the glow of the street lights and into the complete and utter darkness beyond. I can't really imagine there's anything down here which I shouldn't be pissing on but I can't honestly see a damned thing. Casting caution to the wind I unzip my flies and adopt the typical gunslinger pose, sighing the most relieved of sighs as I let loose one of those torrents which your bladder just knows it has no way of stopping.
Quietly but unmistakably, there's a sound from the blackness in front of me.... the sound of rattling chains. As I take a few bandy-legged steps backward the sound gets ever nearer, horror-film style. Suddenly I'm faced with the head of a massive, snarling dog, eyes wild with fury and teeth snapping only inches from my still gushing pipework. Fearing the worst I fall to the ground anticipating the monster's revenge but there's a loud crunch followed by a painful yelp as the hellhound reaches the end of its chain, teeth and eyes disappearing once again into the shadows.
As I scramble back into the reassuring glare of the strip-lights in the launderette everything suddenly becomes clear to me. Perhaps Nick Kamen wasn't so cool after all. Maybe, like me, he'd just pissed all over his jeans.