Rolling Links
- Punk Omelette Break Eggs, Add Razor Blades.
My local Dry Cleaner is Mr Chambio, a very charming and friendly man of Greek extraction, who has recovered from illness and returned to the Holloway Road. His shop is now brimming with clean clothes, and his machines hum and fill the racks with expertly pressed and darned garments.
Mr Chambio (Peter) is gregarious and funny, and he adorns his great big chemical tank at the back of the shop with pictures of his grandchild – also I believe called Peter – printed out from email snaps. I am going to buy him some photo paper when I next go to the stationers so that the baby pics come to resemble glossy icons. Mr C’s love for his family is very evident.
In the morning, he sits in his sunlit window and makes his repairs on a small table with a sewing machine, and he catches the eye of his regular punters and greets them heartily. Today it was a lovely morning, promising the Indian summer we deserve after 40 days of rain. He accosted me in a pleasant manner outside the shop, looked me in the eyes and asked me how I was. I said, apart from tired, tired. He laughed and asked me why. I said, I have been working too hard. I had a headache last night and went to bed at 9pm. I realised I was telling him the truth I don’t want to tell anyone, especially myself. He said, have you had a holiday ? I said, no. He said, you need a holiday.
I need a holiday. I need 2 weeks without computers, bills or deadlines. I need clean air, the sun on my back, the wind in my hair, and sleep without the rumble of traffic or the wail of sirens. I need to recharge my batteries. I want to get on a plane and go the Mediterranean somewhere cheap and stare at the sea for a long while. I need the scent of pine, and food that never sees a city. And though I don’t want to admit it, I need some time truly on my own.
Thank You Mr Chambio.
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rae