The other day the washer here in the apartment went belly up. I'm sure it's a drive belt broken or slipping as the motor runs but the machine doesn't agitate or spin. I could possibly fix this, but we won't get a break on the rent, so the landlord can get someone here to do the repairs. So tonight I trundled down to the local laundromat, big basket of clothes in tow and a pocket full of quarters to feed the machines.
I hate going to the laundromat. The time spent there seems slightly longer than the month of March but shorter than the last ice age. There's a row of washers, a third of which don't work. Usually you find out which ones don't work after you've put the $2 in them. The dryers aren't any better. I find the dog-eared Reader's Digest from 2002 provides seconds of entertainment as a preliminary to the main event of counting the holes in the ceiling tiles.
I find this clip from The Young Ones to be an accurate account of a trip to the laundrette.
There are a few Scrub Pubs out there, which is to me the perfect business concept. Put a bar and grill and some games right inside to the laundromat. I wouldn't mind taking the wash out so much if I thought a beer, some nachos, and a round of darts was close by.
Ah, well. The dryer here still works, and I reckon the laundromat beats taking the dirty clothes down to the river and beating them against a rock. But only just.
Cheers, all. Enjoy your weekend!