The people you really need to get on good terms with is the laundry staff. I have used enough hotel laundries to fill a whole blog on the perils of sending white cotton knickers to such places. It is always a hit and miss affair and I have had them returned in the past an interesting shade of murky pink, dingy blue and an unappealing shade of grey. I always think that using a hotel’s laundry is a form of Russian Roulette and I am always wary when I have to use a new one.
Some of you may think I am somewhat obsessed with the fate of my knickers but, as I have previously alluded to I am not of a slim and sylphlike figure. I am more rounded and therefore cannot always get the size of knickers I need in the places I have lived.
Therefore, if they are damaged they are not easily replaced and as I only get back home every six months that can be a long wait for sparkly new ones. You begin to see my dilemma and the reasoning behind my obsession.
Having been married for nearly 35 years ML is the only one besides myself who sees my knickers nowadays (where did your mind just fly to?) since I gave doing impromptu cartwheels.
I have a long history of cartwheels that got me into trouble (now that would make a good title for a biography!!). The first being when I was about eight or nine and I was walking back to the classroom from having taken a note from my teacher to the school secretary when this irresistible urge came over me.
I shoved the note in my pocket and looked both ways and launched myself into the air – what you probably need to know is the floor of the corridor I was in was made up of highly varnished parquet blocks and if there was any water about they were lethal.
You can see what’s coming, can’t you?
There must have been a tiny patch of water lurking because as my foot landed it slipped out from under me and I landed in a heap on the floor. To add insult to injury my ignominious fall had been observed by the headteacher and four visitors.
A long wait outside the headteacher’s office and a stern telling off put paid to my antics – well for a short while anyway.
Anyway, I have digressed – not unusual I am afraid. Back to the laundry.
The first time I used it I had the inevitable laundry list to decipher, there is a separate section for men and woman with different prices. Also, the list only has T-shirts in the men’s section, the women’s section only says blouse or silk blouse and I really want to see a Petit coat – do they wash dolls clothes or dog coats? The reality is of course that is probably just a spelling mistake but I can dream.
Firstly, I have to fold up the dirty washing, lay it all out on the bed mine on one side ML’s on the other, count it up and fill in the list. Once that task is done the washing has to be bagged and the laundry contacted to come and pick it up.
The clothes were returned later that same day by a young man, I held my arms out for it but he came in the room and laid it on the bed.
“Okay”. I thought, he’s probably after a tip.
How wrong I was, he proceeded to empty the bags onto the bed, laying it all out and grouping the items together which included fanning out my knickers and bras. He then proceeded to count everything against the original list.
Slightly pink of cheek at this point I waited until he had finished. With a big smile, he handed me the list and asked me to sign at the bottom and off he went. Now this is going to happen a couple of times a week for the foreseeable future and I am going to have to get over somebody counting my underwear in front of me.
Getting over my embarrassment I put things away. Despite ticking hangers on the laundry list, only a couple of things come back on hangers and the rest are folded including all of my tops, so I had to shake them out and hang them up hoping the fold lines would drop out.
This hotel does not provide an iron or ironing board, so we are going to try to buy an iron and bring it back and hope they ignore it on the security scanner. There is no way we can get an ironing board but I think the large padded bench that my case is sitting on may prove the answer.
I have two tops that are made from broderie anglaise which whatever they use to press the clothes with doesn’t like the material and unless I am going for the very rumpled look I won’t be wearing them again until the iron is purchased.
The joys of hotel living, those that have followed my previous blogs know of my hatred of ironing and so will realise my disappointment at probably not having totally escaped it after all.
If you have enjoyed this blog you may want to read the blogs I kept when I lived in Vietnam and Costa Rica.