All seemed to have gone well until it came to the fabric conditioner …

I had rejoined the marginalised, because my washing machine broke down and I had to resort to the laundrette. Not so many of these survive. They are a bit like those shops for making international phone calls back home. You find them in less prosperous parts of town, and as technology changes, they close.

The laundrette I remembered from 20 years ago is now a trendy architect’s. But another, opposite a greasy spoon cafe, still offered its suds to the deslavarropados, the washing-machineless. It was looked after by a large woman from the South. Not Sussex, but Louisiana. It was a scene from A Confederacy of Dunces. Everyone felt free to talk to everyone.