The Fit Cobbler

Been a bona fide full-time working woman for a week and it’s all going so smoothly, I’m going to struggle to write about something interesting or at the very least controversial at this rate. What I do know is that when I exit the tube at Piccadilly every morning at about 10 to 9, I’m already smiling. A quick glance over my shoulder and there he is, Venus’s sweet cherubim son, Eros. And I smile some more. Then I turn into my street, in the very soul centre of Soho and frankly, I love the area so much, well I should really start carrying a change of underwear.

We had the office Christmas party this week…early I know but in a way a nice segue way into both December and my introduction to the company as a whole. And what a lovely bunch of people they are. Honestly. Yeah, boring I know.

Not so boring is the dry cleaners on Berwick Street…bear with me. I’d noticed a higher than average amount of dry cleaning being brought into the office and an unusually proactive willingness by some of the PR girls to either take or collect items to/from said establishment. I put it down to it being a disarmingly friendly place – my associate director makes me a tea every day. After the fifth day of girls coming round asking if anyone had any dry cleaning that needed picking up, I got curious.

What’s with this obsequiousness?

“Oh yeah”, says P, my booth buddy and a typical London wide-boy , “they all want an excuse to go see ‘the fit cobbler’.”

“The Fit Cobbler? That’s a neat name for a dry cleaners,” I say.

“Nah, that what the girls call the man who runs it. You should get involved mate. I don’t see it myself.”

I had to ask. “Who would play him in a film version?” That’s my way of picturing what someone really looks like.

“Ryan Phillippe, naked,” replied one of the Corporate PRs.  In case you're having trouble conjuring the image, here's a little 'aide memoire'.



Behave!

On Monday I’m taking two jackets in for a steam.

And one for luck: