The Day The Hot Water Died

You start to realize, the more you observe life, that tiny events, however insignificant, often have a profound effect on the grand scheme of things. Or rather, more topically, that all it takes is a small event to catalyze an entire slew of things, things you never thought you would see or hear, or even do.

So because Wednesday evening is a time to cozy up for storytelling, I’m going to tell you the story of how in one day, I, Lindsay of South Kensington, ended up going undercover as an international student, seeing a woman stark naked, baffling an old man, and flat ironing my hair in a members-only lounge – all because on Monday, March 16th, the hot water at Harrington Gardens died.

Let me first talk about the day it happened. (I touched on this briefly last post.) Psyching myself up for my first job interview, I came home Monday evening with the intentions of washing and blowdrying my hair. Because sadly, as we all know, people tend to take straight-haired people more seriously than curly-haired ones. (This could be because curliness implies a certain bohemian wildness that really isn’t fitting towards office administration – but maybe I’m reading too far into it.) Anyway, I turned on the shower, waiting, as I do every time, for the water to turn from cold to warm. It always takes a second, right? Especially in older buildings.

I stood there, tapping my foot, sticking my hand in and out from under the water like the Hokey Pokey to check the temperature. It seemed to be taking longer than normal to warm up. That’s okay, I thought. It’s an older building.

Three minutes later, the water was still as icy as it had been at first. I found that really unusual. To see if it was an isolated shower problem, I tried turning on the hot water tap in the sink. But like the shower, the water was ice cold.

Cue Tuesday morning:

“Lindsay!” called Matt. “The hot water’s not working!”

It sure wasn’t. In fact, the problem, fifteen years in the making, was so bad that apparently nobody would be coming to fix it until Thursday.

I was fine with forfeiting my shower yesterday. But by today, the day of my second interview, I needed one badly. I couldn’t possibly show up at a law firm recruitment company with hair this greasy. After all, I do need a job. And if getting one meant braving the subzero temperatures of the shower, or trekking across the city to find a warm one, I was prepared.

An idea hit me.

At both hostels I had stayed at, I remembered I had not had to use a key to access the showers. What if, I thought, I pretend to be a hostel resident again – just for the day?

I knew it would be risky to go to either of the hostels I had previously been to, as I still remembered what the receptionists looked like – the chances that they would remember me too were too high. I would need to go somewhere where it would be believable that I was simply a guest they had not remembered seeing before. On Sunday night, Janice, Cheryl and I had gone to a particular one to see Burn After Reading for free. As I recalled, it had been remarkably easy for us to get through the reception gates and go downstairs without once having to justify who we were or what we were doing there.

That would be my spot.

I rode the eight stops on the tube to the hostel and went inside. Pretending as though I were simply just another international student (as that’s what the hostel caters to), I went through the gate and spotted a sign that said “GYM”.

Hey, this might be easier than I thought, it occurred to me. I followed the sign downstairs to a fitness room and went in.

“Hi, can I borrow a towel?” I asked at the desk.

“Sure,” said the lady. She handed me a towel from the shelf behind her.

Sweet deal!

I followed the signs to the showers. Sure enough, there they were. Except when I walked in, I noticed that unlike the hostel dorm showers, there was nowhere in each stall to hang your clothes while you were showering.

A woman walked in after me. Putting her bags on the bench, quickly, easily, and normally, she proceeded to take off her clothes. Leaving everything there, including her towel, she walked buck naked to one of the stalls, pulled the curtain, and turned on the shower.

Oh, no, I thought. There is no way I’m doing that. There has to be another way.

I inched my bag as close to the shower stall as I could. Feeling a bit like Mr. Bean, I took my shoes off and toddled into the stall so as not to let my toes touch the disgusting tiles. My arm reaching around the curtain multiple times, I got ready, trying hard to balance my clothes, towel, and shampoo on top of my bag without letting any of it touch the floor, and turned the shower on.

The water was cold.

No, I thought.

Not only was the water cold, but the shower head was obviously past its prime, and had holes where holes should not be. Water sprayed everywhere! It shot over the top of the curtain, right onto my bag and shoes.

After a few moments, the water began to feel warmer.

Then the shower shut off.

Didn’t I get out of the hostel so I could have warm showers that didn’t shut off? I wondered.

After this process repeated about six more times, I was finally ready. The naked woman was almost fully clothed by the time I emerged from the stall in full, albeit soggy, interview wear.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I mumbled.

“Are you from America?” she asked.

“Canada,” I said firmly. For the last time, British people. I’m not American! If I was, do you think I’d be…well, I guess I wasn’t really representing Canada too well by posing as a member of a hostel.

I went to the blow dryer on the wall and dried my hair and clothes. All I had to do next was plug in my straightening iron and finish with my hair.

I looked around. There was not a plug in sight.

Okay, I thought, don’t panic. Surely a bathroom will have a plug.

I left the showers, deposited my towel in the “GYM TOWELS ONLY” bin, told the fitness receptionist goodbye, and went in search of a bathroom. Slipping quietly past Main Reception, I stole away into the one behind the desk. My eyes scanned the wall.

No plug.

Now I was beginning to panic. I couldn’t possibly go to the interview looking like Mufasa. There had to be a way…there just had to.

In the lobby there were some stairs leading up to a second level. Wondering what I would have to lose, as I had just over an hour to finish this and get to my interview, I ran up. Expecting to find dorm rooms, I was surprised to see larger rooms instead, housing large boardroom-style tables and chairs.

“Residents Only”, read a sign in front of one of them.

That’s me! I thought. I ran in. There was a large TV playing an old music video by Oasis on the wall. Right next to it was a plug. Hastily putting my stuff down, I plugged in my voltage adapter, then my flat iron. I sat and waited for it to heat up, thankful that I had the large room to myself. Opening my tiny blush container, I craned my neck to see in the mirror and started straightening my hair.

At that moment, an old man walked in. He was carrying a plastic bag full of lunch. He went over to one of the large tables and sat down.

I did not think he had noticed anything strange about my behaviour. After a beat, however, he got up, went over to the TV, turned up the Oasis video, then came over to me.

“Toilet?” he said in a European accent.

“What?” I asked him.

“Toilet?” he repeated, gesturing.

“You’re asking me where the toilet is?”

“No. Couldn’t you do this in the toilet?” he said.

It suddenly occurred to me what he was getting at.

“Oh. No, I can’t,” I answered.

Content with that, he went back to his seat.

Minutes passed. I was almost halfway done my hair. The videos had moved on to one by the Spice Girls. Must be 90s day, I thought. Then to my surprise, the old man got up again.

“Do you stay here?” he asked me.

I looked at him, surprised. “Yes,” I lied.

“Couldn’t you do this in your room?”

“No,” I answered.

He looked at me as how Larry David would look at someone he wasn’t sure was telling the truth – chin up, eyes down, searching every corner of my expression for the lie.

Then he sat back down.

“It’s funny,” I said to my friend Ange on a courtyard coffee shop bench in Soho later, “after all that, I didn’t even get the job.”

“Well, at least you got your hair straightened,” she said.

“That’s true,” I realized.

And the sun set on another day in London.