Laundromats
The moustachioed lothario Burt Reynolds once claimed: ‘Marriage is about the most expensive way for the average man to get laundry done.’ Which, of course, is a sexist thing to say, but there is no denying that of the 6.6 billion loads of washing done in England every year, 85 per cent of them are done by women. But increasingly few are done at the launderette.
In its heyday in the 1970s, there were over 12,500 launderettes scattered across the country. Now, that number is down to less than 3,000. The one in Hastings has been there since 1966 and continues to cling on. In fact, it does a thriving business. Before that, residents used the public baths gifted in 1866 by Countess Waldegrave after she took pity on the poor and the parlous state of their clothing. Seaside towns are one of the few places where launderettes are still an essential part of the infrastructure – primarily because of the thousands of transient holiday-makers.
There is no service wash option in Hastings, nor is there an attendant on duty (most of them went the way of the bus conductor). But there is a washing-powder dispenser – 60 pence for a small plastic cup – the nostalgic sound of the drums frothing at £8 per cycle, along with the dog-eared laundry baskets and the vast dryers (£1 for 10 minutes).
I am rather fond of our local launderette (we still have no washing machine) but not as fond as Georgie, my sevenyear- old, who is spellbound by this collective washing arena. Like colour television, most of her generation have never known anything except home appliances.
For her, it’s like an extension of the funfair. Depending on the time of week, there are the ladies with Thermos flasks, who gossip, giggle and help each other fold their linen so neatly it won’t need ironing. There are the spaced-out foreign language students and the cap-in-hand performance artist who attempts to pay for his smalls by reciting Yeats.
Sadly, so far, there has been no sighting of the man from the 1980s Levi’s ad strolling in and stripping down to his boxer shorts before putting his jeans in the machine – but we all live in hope.
Next week: Pirates of Penzance
In its heyday in the 1970s, there were over 12,500 launderettes scattered across the country. Now, that number is down to less than 3,000. The one in Hastings has been there since 1966 and continues to cling on. In fact, it does a thriving business. Before that, residents used the public baths gifted in 1866 by Countess Waldegrave after she took pity on the poor and the parlous state of their clothing. Seaside towns are one of the few places where launderettes are still an essential part of the infrastructure – primarily because of the thousands of transient holiday-makers.
There is no service wash option in Hastings, nor is there an attendant on duty (most of them went the way of the bus conductor). But there is a washing-powder dispenser – 60 pence for a small plastic cup – the nostalgic sound of the drums frothing at £8 per cycle, along with the dog-eared laundry baskets and the vast dryers (£1 for 10 minutes).
I am rather fond of our local launderette (we still have no washing machine) but not as fond as Georgie, my sevenyear- old, who is spellbound by this collective washing arena. Like colour television, most of her generation have never known anything except home appliances.
For her, it’s like an extension of the funfair. Depending on the time of week, there are the ladies with Thermos flasks, who gossip, giggle and help each other fold their linen so neatly it won’t need ironing. There are the spaced-out foreign language students and the cap-in-hand performance artist who attempts to pay for his smalls by reciting Yeats.
Sadly, so far, there has been no sighting of the man from the 1980s Levi’s ad strolling in and stripping down to his boxer shorts before putting his jeans in the machine – but we all live in hope.
Next week: Pirates of Penzance