Yesterday I found out that my supervisor has decided to go on “semi-sabbatical” this year. His availability will be now limited to “some Thursdays.” As I am obviously new to the UK supervisor-student relationship, I’m not sure exactly what this means – but it fills me with a little irritation and disappointment. Mercifully, the feeling is not so overwhelming after the many reminders during the many postgraduate induction sessions last week of how independent MA work is supposed to be.
Thankfully, he is not completely unavailable – and it is with this news that I enter the humid laundrette room in Claredale house with the first not-long overdue linen load at 8:30 last night. The required £1.40 lies in my pocket next to my keys. My shoelaces are untied. Dorothy and another girl are waiting for their washing cycle to complete and I am next in line. One of the large grey machines is ready for another load; however, the owner of the machine’s clothing content has yet to return to claim his now lukewarm wet jeans, t-shirts and socks. With the recommendation from the person in line behind me, I remove his laundry and place it in a green tub aware of the fact that I probably wouldn’t want someone removing my things while at the same time irritated that he has chosen inconsiderately not to return on time.
After a shower and a kind offer of mint tee from Waleed (who happens to be in the kitchen during the darker hours of the day in accordance with a proper fasting schedule for Ramadan) I return to the laundrette to find Bruno, a 19 year old French student from Strasbourg, stuffing his things into the dryer apparently missing a few lukewarm wet t-shirts. I had somehow not seen them in the washing machine when I removed his things earlier. Needless to say, they were one load cleaner. He was genuinely not annoyed by my earlier line-jumping actions and offered his room number in case I found anything else of his hiding in my laundry.
Back in my room, after I split up either an intensely violent argument or the passionate embrace of our socks (I wasn’t sure which because socks can’t speak), I realised it was time to drop them off in room number 48. Bruno was enthusiastic to receive his socks, so much so in fact that he invited me in for tea – an odd consequence of stealing someone’s clothes but one I gladly accepted. Over some instant mango and passion-fruit tea and three hours of amicable conversation, Bruno (France), Rob (Guernsey) and Maja (Poland) and I toasted (Santé, Cheers, Na zdrowie) new friendships born of strange circumstances.
Supervisor or no supervisor, London was the right choice.
Tags: London, serendipity