Laundering

Please note: After writing this post I realise that I sound a bit like I’m on some form of narcotic. I can assure you that I’m not. The most potent substance I’ve taken today is salad cream.

Washing clothes is an intensely cathartic process. There’s something wonderful lurking amid the whirr of the tumble dryers, the smell of warm fabric softener and the uniformly bland décor.

It’s quite possible that these visits to the launderette are the only time that I ever really think about anything of any importance. My normal life is cluttered. Profound thoughts occasionally pass through my brain, but they do so in a fleeting manner as they try and dodge the timetables, bank statements and other boring life-detritus.

Tonight I sat for five minutes and stared intently at the graze on my thumb; the result of an unfortunate incident with a cheese grater. It’s not going to be there for very long. There won’t even be a scar. In a month, I won’t even remember its existence. In fifteen years’ time, I won’t be able to recall anything about this week. Nothing marks this period of seven days as any different from the (hopefully) hundreds that will ensue. Everything about youth is so transient and fickle. Most of my waking day is shaped by the feeling that there’s a gaping hole my life. It follows me around and looms over me when I’m trying my hardest to have a good time. I’m not a fan of this gaping hole. Halfway through the spin cycle, it occurred to me that what’s missing is The Future. I’m craving something that doesn’t even exist yet. I’m aimless. I’m feckless. And after June, I have no plans. This frightens me intensely. I, like the millions of others in exactly the same boat, need to find a purpose. It’s easier said than done.

If I manage to remember these worries when I’m old and grey, I’ll laugh my head off.

The philosophical magic of the launderette only extends to a four-metre radius. I’m now back home and safe in the company of menial, mind-numbing tasks and a laptop.

I might put a plaster on my thumb.