Yours truly’s itinerary for today incorporates the ‘verve infusing’ chore of ironing laundry – Clothing and bedsheets amassed after yesterday’s sojourn through washing machine and dryer…… Incidentally, that was the laundry, not GJ Strachan, navigating the washer/dryer.
Footnote – Yeah, I agree I probably didn’t need to suffix the word ironing with the word laundry. After all, what the heck else would I’ve been ironing?!
Anyhow, if I’d the flexibility to fit into the washing machine, I’ve every confidence it’s capable of bestowing me with a thorough cleanse. If I’d avoided drowning, despite yours truly exiting the appliance is a state of extreme dizziness, a fragrantly pleasant redolence would surround the author……. Unless you don’t like the smell of Daz automatic.
Awaited my placement dryer in situ, for onwards evaporation and induction of further dizzy spells, I’d bear a cleanliness level similar to Reg Varney’s bus (on 1970’s sitcom ‘On The Buses’) after the depot’s cleaners had given it a thorough sanitise.
For clarity, I’m aware the Reg Varney bus analogy is pretty woeful, but I was (and still am) really struggling to think of something suitably chaste and fragrant to utilise as a simile.
Although in my defence, Reg and Jack’s bus always looked spick and span, so that idiosyncratic comparison isn’t totally without basis in fact. The usual gripes of their guvnor, Inspector Blakey, ordinarily surrounded the omnibuses punctuality, not a commentary on its aesthetic appearance.
The duo’s tardy timekeeping usually consequential of the bus crew pair stopping for clandestine liaison’s with beautiful bored housewives en route back to the aforementioned depot. Young housewives, who if you believed the fictional narrative of bawdy 1960’s/70’s comedies were oft married to hardcase characters, played by the likes of pug faced actor Arthur Mullard. The aforementioned late actor possessing a visage bringing to mind Les Dawson’s quip “If beauty is only skin deep, you must’ve been born inside out.”
If ‘Carry On’ movies and their celluloid/TV ilk were to be believed, 1960s/70s Britain was awash with busty young ladies searching to spice up their lives through trysts with milkmen, postmen, window cleaners or middle-aged bus drivers/clippys.
Taking into account how these hapless character’s sartorial elegance and personality barely usurped the predatory ladies ne’er do well spouses, they were scenes which baffled this growing kid.
As a young lad watching these fictional farces, my mind became indoctrinated with a number of shallow and misguided beliefs. Among them, irrespective of looks and behavioural traits, if struggling to find a suitor this conundrum was remedied by merely securing employment aboard a milk float, up a pair of ladders or driving the bus to Acton.
Possessing only one X chromosome, I’ve no idea what makes women tick. I know what makes clocks tick, but as they irritatingly chime every hour on the hour, plus I find them dull company, I’ve little desire to date one …… Well, unless my watch isn’t working.
Unlike lothario bus driver Reg and his clippy Jack, for most of my life I’ve been pretty poor at mixing with women. Once chronic shyness, displeasure lasses weren’t able to recite the 1972 Leeds United FA Cup winning side, and their vitriolic objections to me gurning while socialising, curtailed many relationships.
Talking of curtailing things, it’s time I let this weary horse rest, feed and water. Whilst I venture into the saloon for a stiff bourbon and a raucous Calamity Jane sing-along night.
