Laziness

So you've got money. What you don't have is time. Or, at least, you feel you don't have it. And isn't that enough? If I feel I'm too busy to do something, then it really doesn't matter if it's true or not, does it? If you women out there are always saying we can't fault you for how you feel, because they're YOUR feelings, and therefore innately correct, then so are mine, damnit.

Anyway, I live and work in England now. For those of you that know about England you know that fashion is taken seriously in the workplace. Though how this meshes up with the fact that Brits can wear blues shoes with a brown outfit, or keep trying to bring back the 80's, is beyond me. Anyway, I'm here and I have to deal with it.

So now I have to dress smart, wearing dress pants and button-down, collared shirts. And these shirts get dirty. And when they get dirty, they need to be washed. And after that? Ironed, of course. Well, I went so far as to throw them in the laundry, and even hang them to dry after that. But I just couldn't bring myself to iron anymore. I think the main reason for this is that my ironing board is shit.

Anyway, what do I see out on one of my runs, right around the corner from my flat? A place called, get this, "Hard Pressed for Time." It's a message from God. Or, as it turns out, maybe the devil. Brit places of business, no matter their service orientation, are open from 9:30AM to 5:30PM. That's it. Rare exceptions. Except for pubs. Bunch of Alchies, I say. So this already should have been my first warning that it might not be a good idea to farm out my ironing. I tell work I'll be in a bit late and go to leave my gear with the lady at the shop. Five pairs of pants and 5 shirts. Nearly my entire business wardrobe I have over here. That should have been my second warning. She takes the clothes and begins the arduous process of giving me a receipt, which she bungles, overcharging me, saying, "We'll straighten this out when you come back for your clothes on Wednesday. She'll know what to charge you." Third warning sign, right? Strike One.

Wednesday rolls around, and again I try to go there before work to pick up my clothes. And guess what? She can't find them. The shop is completely self-contained. Nothing gets farmed out. And she can't find them! "You'll have to come back. She'll know where they are." she says. Granted, she IS apologetic, and I WANT to tell her, "That's okay. It's not your fault." But I can't. Because it IS her fault! So instead I say, "You know, I brought my clothes here to be ironed and save me some time, but I guess it isn't exactly working out as planned, is it?" She agrees. I also warn her that she has currently absconded with nearly all my clothes I have with me in merry ole England, and there will be a reckoning if we can't fix it. She apologizes. But, alas, nothing can be done for it, so I leave. Strike Two.

Now today I plan on leaving work early, since I have a 10-mile run anyway, and hope to find out whether or not this place gets strike Three. I'm hoping that by going in on an evening that I won't have to deal with her, and maybe I'll get to meet this mysterious, amazing, know-it-all "she" that's always being bantered about. We'll see. Check back here later today to see how it all turns out.

Redemption! Apparently my clothes were there all the time, but the lady didn't know that. Of course, in her defense, they WERE out back on the rail? What's that mean? But this other lady did indeed save the day. And my clothes. But at 18 pounds, plus my time (and frustration, the price was indeed too high. Guess I'll have to learn how to iron after all.