My broken washing machine has introduced me to a whole new world of deliciously uncomfortable human interaction: the laundromat.

It’s a magical place where you exchange currency for clean fabric, with a brief but intimate glimpse at the many facets of humanity. I mean, people are literally airing their dirty laundry. As I watched people come in and out with their loads and judged them internally, I couldn’t help but envisage a series: The Coin Laundry Chronicles

The first episode didn’t disappoint.

There I was, seating on the provided chairs minding my own business when I was asked to come along to a Jane Austen-esque dance session. Like one of those prance-down-a-line-of-dapper-gentlemen-and-spin-in-a-coordinated-fashion dances you see on Pride and Prejudice and Little Women.

At this point, I was too excited to go home and put my freshly-washed sheets back on my bed and polish off the one kilo bucket of humus I had stashed in my fridge. I politely declined, saying I wasn’t much of a dancer and even withheld my inner dialogue shouting “I’m actually a phenomenal dancer, but my moves can’t be taught, replicated or be brought out at a moment’s notice – how dare you imply that I need to be instructed how to give birth to my feelings through the power of dance?!” – like I said, polite.

This gentle decline was going swimmingly, except we were talking while he was unloading the dryer and a piece of clothing fell out onto the floor. As he had his hands full, I instinctively reached to pick it up until I realised it was a pair of his undies. I think he realised this about two milliseconds after I did. It was at that time when I had to weigh up whether my desire to be helpful outweighed the reality of taking a stranger’s intimate wear in my fist. And once I had said undergarments in my custody, what would the following exchange entail? A comment about the fabric softener? A trying-to-be-charming-but-really-just-coming-off-as-creepy remark about said jocks being briefs? A skid mark joke?

The possibilities were too unpredictable, so I just straightened up back into my seat and we acted like any sensible adults: ignoring the problem. Conversation continued and three minutes later took another dive. I thought he said his name was Ray Jay, which I immediately verbally linked to Kim Kardashian’s old boyfriend who was weirdly obsessed with her toe ring. Confused chuckling followed and then he shuffled out the door and out of my life forever.

And that was how my first laundromat experience came to an end. I can only assume that all trips to public laundries unfold in this manner. I’m already looking forward to the next instalment. Next time I am taking a notebook.