There is a magic in being told a story.
My local dry cleaner has been sharing stories with me.
His own – and that of others.
His own is one of hardship, risk, courage and, ultimately, success.
The others have to do with strange underwear and kinky jobs that I didn’t even know existed. (Who knew that people paid people for entire afternoons just to watch them get dressed and undressed – in seven different layers of clothing?) Anyway – the lady in question needs a dry cleaner, and my man is he.
I could tell you my dry cleaner’s story here too, but this isn’t really about the stories themselves.
I have learnt, my dry cleaner tells me, never to judge people by their looks.
And suddenly I realised what a treasure chest this man’s work is – the people he meets, the clothes they wear and the more truthful stories the clothes tell about their wearers than the wearers will ever tell of themselves.
It’s lonely sometimes – living in London, as a mum of a young child – even surrounded by friends. We have lost “the village” – we have lost our sense of being part of a community. Something solid, dependable, and role-defining. Something that we are a part of all the time, whether we like it, or not. A constant feeling of connectedness. Which isn’t there.
But there it was suddenly – between us – a community of two, bound by the secret knowledge of some of London’s strangest underwear.
And, in that, was the pure magic of connectedness and everything that that can do.
New mum, old soul... Finding beauty, wisdom, spirituality, and opportunities for learning in the everyday (hopefully)...