Friday night went on a bit longer than planned. On Saturday morning, my phone alarm went off: “Pick up laundry from the laundry room.” I was still half asleep, so I threw on some clothes and headed down to the communal laundry room.
The machines were still running, with just over 15 minutes left. I couldn’t be bothered going back upstairs, so I decided to wait there.
Then my neighbour showed up. We said hello, exchanged a few words of small talk, and watched the washing machines go round.
“Won’t be long now,” I said, just to break the awkward silence.
“Just a few minutes,” my neighbour replied.
And then we sat in silence again, watching the machines go into their spin cycles.
I did wonder where my neighbour’s laundry was, though. He hadn’t brought a laundry basket with him.
Eventually, the first machine stopped. I got up, and so did my neighbour. We both walked over to the machine, and when I looked through the glass door and saw the clothes inside, I suddenly realised something rather embarrassing.
Those weren’t my clothes.
Then I remembered I’d done my laundry the day before. Apparently, I’d set the reminder for the wrong day by mistake.
So I cheerfully announced to my neighbour, “Right, all done!” Then I turned around and made my escape at the highest speed compatible with maintaining a shred of dignity.
Now he probably thinks I have a habit of sitting in the laundry room, watching my neighbours’ washing go round.
Which, to be fair, is a fairly odd hobby. Even by my standards.
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