I remember from my Canadian-living past, people’s tales of feeling tired when the seasons changed. From autumn into winter, I suppose I recall a certain lethargy it’s true. From the might-need-a-hoodie weather in Oakland to the rain jackets and cherry blossoms of Victoria, onward to the urban tundra of Regina, our bodies have undergone a quick seasonal transition and this morning I can barely bring myself to rise from a very comfortable bed.
Fear of the cold kept me in my room; I really couldn’t be arsed to go out there. However, I was vexed: any day it would be laundry-time. The dillemma I faced was that of choice — should I wait one more day and try getting it sent out tomorrow from the gig, or should I do it today? Or… should I wait even longer? I sucked air through my mind’s teeth and delayed the decision until a fresh communiqué arrived; (the man they call) Pants stirred me into action. He found a laundromat nearby and after throwing on many layers I clutched my pillow of dirty linens, and stepped gingerly along the incumbent ice to Clean Beginnings Laundromat.
The sidewalks were slippery under my Doc Marten’s soles and I was instantly reminded of the stiff-legged method of walking in such conditions. When I lived in Toronto, this sort of thing was somewhat common, but since relocating to Northern Ireland, I am glad weather such as today’s is a stark rarity. Walking in this shit is literally a pain in the ass. Although the météo told me it was minus 14 celsius, the air is still and in the direct sun, it’s not as chilly as I feared. Apart from the hysterical trepidation of an imminent hip injury, the journey itself wasn’t uncomfortable. Still, I can understand the common practice of retiring to warmer climes.
I found my quarry, and inside the establishment, the very man they call Pants. The place is clean, cozy, and attended by a lovely lady with a Russian-sounding accent who stocked detergent, dryer sheets, snacks, and coffee. Quite unlike the slightly edgy laundering establishment I used in LA, this place was pleasant, and cheap; $3.60 was all it took to replenish the stores of black clothing. Between cycles I munched on a sandwich in a nearby coffee place and as if there was never any inconvenience at all, my laundry was done and I was back in the hotel, proofreading the No Ideas book.
Some time later, while dotting and crossing the i’s and t’s of my existence an email appeared in my inbox; a gravitational fact to be sure, its charge to inform all recipients of the postponement of two shows here in Canada. Flu has gripped the musicians’ ranks, a doctor was summoned and the ruling must have been to stay in bed. After the news I hungrily tip-toed on the ice to an eatery and read some of Verne’s Mysterious Island while gorging on foodstuffs. Afterwards I traipsed in the frickin’ permafrost to a gas station where I picked up a bottle of ginger ale and some potato chips. Looks like we’re here ’til Sunday.