UNESCO YET TO ESTABLISH VIABLE USE FOR NEIGHBOURS
Got home today, checked out laundry round the back of the block. I do this as fellow residents have mental block on subjects like gates, locks, recycling bins and their uses, and, quite probably, remembering to breathe in and out without recourse to a handy diagram.
Laundry door – locked. Miracle status.
Lint filter in communal dryer uncleaned for about 56 years by the look of it. Standard procedure.
Full completed load of clothing left in washing machine for next user to discover when the poor bastard just wants to get his washing in and go. Also check, and very standard procedure, until I decided to be a good samaritan and take the nominally clean clothing out of the machine and put it aside in a clean garbage bag.
After removing several layers and kilos of unlikely clothing – do even dumb or lazy people really launder even fake leather shorts, beaded stuff and spangly shiny cardie type numbers in a regular washing machine? Yes they do apparently – I suddenly become aware that I’ve inadvertently become cast as head conjurer in an ongoing magic trick.
No matter how many yards and tons of clothes I pull out of that washing machine, there are still more in there. A lot more as it happens.
By the time the machine is empty and the ultra-giganto sized garbage bag is overflowing, the latter feels like something a prime-era Schwarzenegger could have done reps with to really nail that “Pecs that run laps of the room and even do the dusting” look.
I’ve seen many many examples of people overloading the machines in this laundry – and with the dryer, I gather there was a meeting when I was away and it’s mandatory for everyone else in the block to try and make the thing explode every time they use it.
But I’ve never seen anything like this. Half as much clothing would have been too much by a third. Nothing can have been washed effectively, no matter how many gallons of a particularly noxious fruit-flavoured washing liquid they poured over the clothes, and over the top of the machine, and in the sink and on the floor.
A while back, somewhat exasperated by the enthusiastically wilful brainlessness of fellow residents when it came to, well, just about anything around here – there are a couple of honorable exceptions, and that would be two out of about 15-20 on site – I noted to one of the more agreeable ones that one day I expected to come home to find, just inside the front gate (which would presumably have been left wide open) all other occupants of the flats in a long line, trouserless and bent over, waiting for me to wipe their arses. There is nothing that has occurred since that has rendered this scenario any more unlikely or less inevitable.
I am becoming accustomed to Chet Baker (jazz trumpet player/vocalist), despite long-term and apparently unfair reservations. I’d thought he was some kind of jazz-lite matinee idol/torch vocal guy, but I got a four disc set out from the local library, and it turns out he played with some big deal types, he could play, worked in a variety of musical contexts, and the smootho vocals were more occasional than regular.
The stuff I’ve been listening to has been anything but a chore, other than the unquenchable predilection for jazz-dizzlers of a certain era (anywhere from 40’s through to at least early 60’s) to trot out “My Funny Valentine”, to which I’m rapidly developing a nerve/skin negative reaction akin to my sainted mother, Ma Leapster’s, lifelong and peculiar hatred for the antique folk tune “Greensleeves”. There are two discs of the Chet Baker set free of this blight, but by way of cruel recompense there are two versions on the final disc alone.
Also, I am now getting some honest laughs and entertainment out of “Bitch’s Brew” by Miles Davis, including the title track which runs for entire baseball seasons. The mix of textures of oddly ill-suited instruments kind of somehow working together, and one drum kit in one channel and another in another, and eastern scales and themes head butting against jazzbo syncopations and improvisations is kind of fun if you can manufacture the mood for it and you have nowhere to go in a hurry.
There’s no need to worry that I’m getting all jazzperfied now. I always had a weakness for many flavours of the Great Jazz Pie. This is indeed an example of the “I was dull already” defence.
DICK OF THE DAY
While I’m engaged in close vegetable study – not a euphemism, I was at the stupormarket – this young goofy hugely tall geeky guy with curly hair and teeth everywhere yodels “Sorry” at the exact same moment he delivers what he no doubt meant to be a warm and heartfelt tap to my side so he can get to the section beyond NOW IF NOT YESTERDAY. Even given my girth there was room to go around. I was not what the English people call “best pleased” and could not resist saying to the departing back of the twitchy, gangly ass-clown responsible, plenty loud enough for everybody in the retail industry to hear: “No, it’s not “Sorry” as you blaze past accompanied by a karate chop to the kidney, it’s “Excuse me” and then you just wait half a second. Fathead”
But no doubt he was a subscriber to the thinking of a fellow rock ape I once encountered in a cramped space near a doorway in a pub. The deadweight-to-all-humanity concerned was apparently intent on burrowing through my liver for about five minutes, and then I stepped aside to let him through. He said nothing. While he was burrowing through the next guy’s liver, I pointed out to him, “The words you were looking for were, ‘Excuse me’.” The guy, clearly a recent resident of Planet Krypton, responded loftily, “I never say, ‘Excuse me’.” I apologised heartily for not recognising him as a member of the British royal family, and we parted, if nothing else, and particularly in his case, none the wiser.