Launderette.

When I got to the launderette yesterday it was quiet. Just a young woman emptying two dryers and neatly folding white sheets and towels into separate piles.

“Good afternoon,” I said cheerfully, “that’s quite a pile of laundry you have there.”
With a towel held under her chin in the process of being folded, she looked up at me, a quizzical look in her eyes.

“Laundry,” I repeated,” you have a lot of laundry.”

“Lorn-der-ee,” she said, stretching the word out slowly, “lorn-der-ee.”

“Washing,” I said, thinking she must have misheard me, “you’ve lots of washing.”

She laughed and seemed to be talking to herself as she repeated the word, “Lorn-der-ee.” Then, not looking up she added, “It’s not my lorn-der-ee, it’s from work.”

“I presumed as much,” I said smiling.

“Pre-joomed,” she said, laughing quietly to herself, putting the washing into two large bags and pressing it down firmly. “Pre-joomed.”

I held the door open for her as she was leaving, with a bag in each hand “Goodbye,” I said.

She looked me straight in the eye and laughed, “Good harf-ta-noon,” she said loudly.

Later, watching my underpants tumbling in the washing machine. I couldn’t make up my mind if she had been making fun of me, or if she was just stupid. In the end, I decided she thought I was a posh git. What a bloody cheek!