Community Service Ch. 03

Well ... they do say that eavesdroppers never hear anything good said about themselves.

*

Okay, then. Right ... I had to get my thinking-head on, here. I had to get organised. I had to box clever.

First, I had to get those two bulging sacks of Canford High, Year Five schoolgirls' dirty sports socks -- double-ringed near the tops, with either red, green, blue or yellow -- that Miss Pardew had brought in (her "little job" for me), straight into two of the four large dark blue plastic laundry tubs -- the two soaking tubs.

Then, while those two tubs' of non-white category socks were soaking, for at least two hours, I could be cracking on with some other work. Such as filling up the open-topped hopper with dirty white socks. And then putting some of them into the laundry boiler tank to soak -- also, for a 2-hour-minimum soak.

The four large dark blue plastic laundry tubs were stacked inside each other for space saving, and were stored under the stainless-steel rinsing sink. I pulled out the four tubs, and I put the top two tubs on the floor, side by side in front of the stainless-steel hot-and-soapy-water sink.

The other two tubs were rinsing tubs. Colander-like, these rinsing tubs were full of one-inch diameter holes. And the tubs had knurled corners, that raised their bottoms two inches above the floor to aid draining. I put the two rinsing tubs back under the rinsing sink for now, out of the way.

There was a length of rubber hose-pipe coiled up in one of the soaking tubs, and I attached one end of it to the hot water tap on the hot-and-soapy-water sink. I put the other end of the rubber hose-pipe into the first of the two tubs I was going to fill, and then I spun the knob of the hot water tap until it was fully open.

I watched, as water gushed out of the hose-pipe and began to fill up the first soaking tub. Within seconds, wispy tendrils of steam were coming out of the rapidly filling tub -- the water heated up fast, and obviously to a very hot temperature, too.

I waited until the first soaking tub was half full, and then I transferred the gushing hose-pipe to the second soaking tub ... Now, I needed to go to my janitor's closet.

I spotted what I was looking for, straight away -- the special detergent that, as C.S.O. Karen had explained, wouldn't make colours run. The 5-litre plastic container of Kolour Kind was sitting on the closet floor, next to a 10-pack of pink, heavy-duty washing-up gloves. I grabbed a pair of the thick rubber washing-up gloves, picked up the Kolour Kind, and returned to the rapidly filling second soaking tub.

Good timing ... Just a few moments more ... and then I turned off the hot water tap. Now, both of the soaking tubs were half full of steaming-hot water.

I read the directions on the Kolour Kind label: Add 1 cap-full, for every 25 litres of water.

Hmm ... how large were these tubs? I wondered. I pulled the two rinsing tubs out from under the rinsing sink again, and turned them upside down, thinking their capacity might be printed on the bottom ... Nope. I put the two rinsing tubs back under the rinsing sink again.

The scornful words of C.S.O. Linda came back to me: "... the thicko is bound to mess up with his sock washing sooner, rather than later." And she was right. I should have looked on the bottoms of the soaking tubs for their capacity, before filling them up. So much for boxing clever!

Hmm ... I didn't want to go and ask C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda. Eavesdropping on them earlier, I had already heard them speaking of me in decidedly less than glowing terms. And if I went knocking on their office door now, about a simple thing like this, they were bound to give me a right old earful ... at least.

C.S.O. Linda especially, seemed to have it in for me. Sarcastically calling me 'double-oh-seven', all the time, and (thanks to Gina Stainham!) 'Mr Licenced-to-hand-wash-girls'-and-women's-dirty-stinky-socks'. Not to mention, that she had told C.S.O. Karen she was only waiting for the "slightest, tiniest excuse," to pull my shorts down around my ankles and cane my bare bottom ... So, no. Best not to interrupt their James Bond movie, I thought. At least, when they were lazing about in their office, they weren't out here, giving me a load of jip.

So, then. How much Kolour Kind do I put in? I wondered. One cap-full? Two? More?

I carefully filled the container's small cap, and I poured the cap-full of thick, cream-coloured liquid into the first soaking tub ...

Hmm ... It didn't seem like much at all, for that amount of water ... Ah, just use your own judgement, I told myself ... Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop! Plop! went the Kolour Kind, as I poured it directly from the 5-litre container into the first tub of steaming-hot water ... Okay, that should just about do it, I estimated. So I up-ended the 5-litre container again, and poured a similar amount of Kolour Kind into the second soaking tub as well.

I then picked up one of the two bulging black plastic sacks that that bossy bint, Miss Pardew, had brought in, and I emptied the unsavoury-smelling contents into one of the two soaking tubs. Then I picked up the second sack, and I deposited its contents into the second soaking tub.

Some of the socks, I saw, were still floating on the surface water of the two tubs. So I grabbed the pair of long wooden tongs from the top step of the step-ladders, and I used them to push the stubbornly floating socks under ... and this action immediately caused the water to start bubbling and frothing up.

Ah ... good, I thought. The steaming-hot water was getting all nice and sudsy, already.

Job done: Now, the 200 (100 pairs) of long white socks -- double-ringed near the tops, with either red, yellow, green or blue, as representative of the four Houses of Canford High -- were beginning their 2-hour-minimum soak.

Later, I would have to begin the onerous, and tedious -- not to mention soul-destroying, and humiliating -- task, of thoroughly and diligently hand-washing every single one of those dirty, stinky, sweat-stained socks -- the sports socks, of the Year Five schoolgirls of Canford High.

In the meantime, though, I had plenty of other things to be cracking on with.

*

I looked at my watch. It was now 11:05.

The day was getting away from me, and I'd hardly done anything yet. And it had just taken me thirty-five minutes, just to bin the sock-related litter, and to get the two tubs full of Year Five's dirty sports socks soaking. Oh -- and to eavesdrop on my two movie-watching supervisors, as they outrageously slandered my character.

I could feel my face going red from my outrage and resentment, at my rememberance of their cruel and hurtful barbs and jibes ... And, what did C.S.O. Karen mean? I wondered, when she'd said to her cane-happy colleague: "Lindz, think about it: it's going to be as good as having our own, personal slave!"

And, my mood darkened -- even more -- at the soul-crushing thought of C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, earning £400 per week. They were earning £400 per week, to so-called supervise me. Supervise me? They were sitting comfortably in their office, and watching the latest James Bond movie ("courtesy of the A.F.P."), while I ... Ah, I couldn't let myself think like this. Or I'd soon be heading for some kind of a breakdown.

I mean, £400! That was five times my £80 per week Unemployment Benefit -- that C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda themselves, had been receiving, just over a week ago ... It didn't bear thinking about.

Even thinking about being forced to hand-wash the girls' and ladies of Canford's dirty, stinky socks, was preferable to that.

*

I picked up the flat piece of wood that was leaning against the dull-grey metal side of the laundry boiler tank, and I placed it over the six wooden steps to make a ramp -- just as C.S.O. Linda had demonstrated, during my "Grand Tour" of the Sock Room.

As I was walking up the makeshift ramp, heading for the wheelie bins of dirty socks, from the comfort of her recliner, Mrs Newlove sniped, "So ... those socks will just have to wait, until you get around to them, will they, David? You've only got one pair of hands, have you? You can't drop everything else -- just on her say-so -- can you? Ha! Miss Pardew soon put you back in your place, didn't she, David?"

Mrs Newlove looked at me, smug-faced, as she then drank cola straight from the mouth of a 2-litre plastic bottle that she'd taken from her red leather sports bag ("I've come prepared."). She eyed me like a hawk, as she gulp, gulp, gulped cola down her throat. Then she smacked her lips in pleasure and satisfaction, and re-capped the plastic bottle.

"Oh, are you still here, Mrs Newlove?" I said, trying to sound totally indifferent to her highly annoying presence. "I'm surprised you haven't got something better to do."

Mrs Newlove sat up on her recliner, the better to follow my progress. "Something better to do? Something better to do -- better than this? What could possibly be better? Oh, I'm not going anywhere, David. You can bank on that! I wouldn't miss this -- your first day in the Sock Room -- for the world! Like I told you before," she said, patting her red leather sports bag, "I'm here for the day ... So, come on, David -- chop chop!! I want to see you earning your dole money! Ha ha ha ha!"

Oh, that woman! She was like some sort of self-appointed bane of my life.

"And -- you've put too much detergent in those tubs!" she said to my back, as I went to the long row of wheelie bins.

*

Lined up against the left-hand wall of the upper (street level) of the Sock Room, were situated twelve wheelie bins, for the sock-changing females of Canford to deposit their dirty socks.

Eight of the wheelie bins were painted white, indicating that they were for dirty white socks. Of the other four wheelie bins, one of the wheelie bins was painted black, indicating that it was for dirty black socks; one was painted navy blue, for dirty navy blue socks, and the other wheelie bin was painted rainbow-coloured, indicating that it was for both single-coloured, and multi-coloured category socks.

Upon lifting the lids of the twelve wheelie bins, my inspection revealed that these last four wheelie bins were all still well under half full.

But, three of the white-painted wheelie bins were now already more than half full. And so I decided to take these three, more-than-half-full wheelie bins straight to the main, open-topped hopper, that was clearly signed: 'White Socks Only!'

As I was steering the first of these three wheelie bins down the makeshift ramp, Mrs Newlove was taking another good swig of her cola and, upon her seeing me traipsing past her down the ramp with the first white-painted wheelie bin of dirty white socks, and struggling not to let the thing run away with me, her mirth got the better of her and she spluttered and choked on her cola as it went down the wrong way.

Heh heh heh, serves her right, I thought.

I placed the two wheels of the first white-painted wheelie bin onto the main hopper's two steel hoisting plates. Then I pushed the Start button ("It's all automatic -- any fool can work it." C.S.O. Linda had assured me).

I stood back and watched as, with an electric thrum, the wheelie bin was hoisted to the top of the main hopper. At the height of its elevation, the wheelie bin was then tipped upside down, causing its lid to hang fully open. The more-than-half-full load of dirty white socks all came tumbling out, and they hit the metal floor of the as yet empty main hopper, making soft thuds as they landed. The electric motor thrummed again, as the emptied wheelie bin was then lowered to the floor.

I pushed the emptied wheelie bin back up the ramp, and returned it to its place. I then repeated this procedure with the second and third, more-than-half-full white-painted wheelie bins.

Having done so, I estimated there were now sufficient dirty white socks in the main hopper, with which to load the laundry boiler tank.

As Mrs Newlove watched me perform my Sock Room duties, there was a look of incredulous, delighted wonder on her face. And she was actually lost for words, for the moment ... But that wouldn't last long.

*

I had slid open the bolt in the small access door, near the bottom of the main hopper, and I was pulling out handfuls of the dirty white socks and throwing them into one of the two large white plastic laundry baskets, when I heard Mrs Newlove say pleasantly, in greeting, "Oh! Hiya, Gina, love. Come and join the fun!"

I looked over my shoulder, to see Gina Stainham sitting on the edge of the recliner to Mrs Newlove's right -- the recliner situated opposite the laundry boiler tank -- after having discarded her dirty white socks. She was now in the process (after having carelessly dropped the single-pack packaging on the floor!) of putting on a brand-new pair from the sock shelves ... Another, clean pair! Because I remembered her changing her socks earlier this morning, and taunting me about it.

What, the ...? Just what the hell is going on here? I thought. "Hey!" I complained. "You've already changed your socks once! This morning! I saw you!"

Gina Stainham's face set in hard, uncompromising lines, so taken aback, was she, at the astounding temerity of my challenge -- of my actually daring to admonish her. Her face reddening with umbrage, she snapped, "So? Have you got a problem with that, then -- community servant David? Because, if you have, I'm sure I could clear it up with your supervisors ..."

"No! No -- there's no need for that ... Gina. I ... I apologise, Gina. I -- I was ... out of order," I said, crimson-faced with shame, at being forced to so totally back down -- at being forced to grovel for Gina's forgiveness.

With just a few well chosen words, Gina Stainham had put me right back in my box -- and both she and Mrs Newlove knew it.

But Gina Stainham wasn't leaving it at that. Oh, no. She wasn't letting me off the hook that easily. She wasn't going to miss an opportunity to slap me down -- to exercise her new-found authority, over a lowly commmunity servant. Venomously glaring at me, she spat, "You bet your arse, you're out of order -- sonny boy! And, it's Mrs Stainham, to you -- community servant David!"

Mrs Newlove threw her head back and emitted a high, delighted laugh, followed by a few moments' worth of thigh-slapping giggles. "Oh, he's a right lippy little sod, Gina! You should have heard him before! The way he was talking back to Miss Pardew -- Canford High's schoolgirls' PE teacher. He was giving her a right load of lip! Oh, she wasn't happy at all -- I can tell you!"

Then Mrs Newlove was rummaging about in her red leather sports bag again.

Extracting a number of rounds of Cellophane-wrapped sandwiches, Mrs Newlove politely offered them to her friend. "Fancy a butty, Gina? I was just about to have one -- it's making me feel peckish, all this watching community servant David hard at work -- ha ha ha ha! I've got cheese and onion, ham and tomato, and corned beef and mustard pickle," she said, taking one of the latter for herself, and taking a healthy bite. "Here you are, Gina -- take your pick," she said, through a mouthful of corned beef and mustard pickle sandwich.

"Ha ha ha!" laughed Gina. "Great minds think alike, eh, Norma?" she said, patting her own, blue leather hold-all. "I've come prepared, too. I've brought some lemon fondant cup-cakes, that I baked this morning, some chocolate biscuits, some cheese-flavoured crackers, and a big variety bag of crisps. And, to wash it all down, I've got a two-litre bottle of ginger beer. So we can share, Norma!"

Ye Gods! I couldn't believe it. Didn't these women have lives to lead?

Gina ("And, it's Mrs Stainham, to you -- community servant David!") Stainham saw me looking over, and said, "So, community servant David, heh, heh, heh ... How are you enjoying your first day, then, working in the Sock Room?"

Ah, I wasn't going to dignify that with a reply. I turned my back on the pair of witches, and concentrated on filling up one of the two large white plastic laundry baskets, with girls' and women's dirty white socks.

*

Having filled up one of the two large white plastic laundry baskets with dirty white socks from the main hopper, I was now faced with what I considered to be, by far, the worst and most distasteful of my Sock Room duties: pulling the girls' and women's dirty socks inside out.

Having retrieved the tubular metal and canvas folding seat from my janitor's closet, I began this most distasteful, nauseating, and thoroughly depressing of tasks.

The worst thing, about this most abhorrent, this most soul-crushing, of chores, was that I had to use my bare hands.

Trying to pull the dirty socks inside out while wearing the rubber washing-up gloves, was just too awkward and fiddly -- and too time-consuming. I certainly had no time to waste in fumbling and pfaffing about like that -- not with my ever-increasing workload seemingly growing by the minute.

Fortunately (certainly, not done deliberately, out of consideration to me), some of the girls and women of Canford had pulled their dirty socks inside out. This was simply due, I had seen, to the way some of the girls and women took off their socks: pulling them down from the top, and in such a way that their socks were automatically turned inside out as they removed them from their feet.

The vast majority of the dirty socks, though, were not pulled inside out. And some of the girls and women had balled up their pair of dirty socks, before depositing them in one of the wheelie bins -- or, as the case may be, tossing them into the main, open-topped hopper, clearly signed: 'White Socks Only!'

So I sat there, as miserable as a wet Wednesday in Wigan. Separating the balled-up pairs, turning them inside out, and transferring the turned-inside-out dirty socks into the other, empty large white plastic laundry basket.

The dirty socks that were already turned inside out, I gratefully threw straight into the other basket. But, for all of the other dirty, stinky, sweat-stained socks, I had to put my bare hand inside the loathsome things and get hold of the toe end with my fingers, so as to be able to pull them inside out ... Ugh. A horrible chore. It was awful, disgusting, and profoundly demoralising -- an unspeakable business.

But, my two supervisors, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda, had told me that I had to pull all of the dirty socks inside out, to make sure that I washed all of the dirt, sweat, and dead skin out of them ... Or else!

*

I pulled down the handle of the laundry boiler tank, and its lid lifted up, allowing wispy tendrils of steam to escape.

The laundry boiler tank's lid opened on its hinges, from right to left. This was to facilitate the transference of the dirty socks, after their 2-hour-minimum soak, from out of the laundry boiler tank, into the stainless-steel, hot-and-soapy-water sink, immediately to its right.

And I would accomplish this task, by standing on the raised platform, and simply transferring over dripping-wet clumps of the steaming, pre-soaked socks, using the pair of long wooden tongs to drop them in.

I carried the first large white plastic laundry basket full of dirty white socks up the step-ladders and, once I was on the platform, I tipped them into the laundry boiler tank. I used the pair of long wooden tongs to submerge any stubbornly floating socks, and then I closed the lid again.

I repeated this procedure another five times, up to the six-basket maximum ...

I went back to the main hopper, slid the bolt, opened the small door, pulled out more of the dirty white socks with my hands, and re-filled one of the two large white plastic laundry baskets with the foul and disgusting things.

I then sat on my folding seat and, as necessary, I separated balled-up pairs, pulled the dirty socks inside out, and transferred them all to the other, empty large white plastic laundry basket.