A SHIFT IN DIRECTION
[17.10.23]
If you like your newsletters without politics or preconceptions or seeking a break from the norm you may have just found your new hangout
HellOoo..again!
*Whistles* …. … ……I almost lost interest in the few hours it has taken me to do a full (minus sort the drawers) decluttering clean out and an unplanned rearrangement of furniture. Yes, I do have a strange hospital style desk! It’s a temporary measure (so I keep saying) just until I buy my new computer (I've been working up to doing that for roughly a year). This desk is weird yeah. I didn't have the heart to refuse it being handed down to me. “oh you need a desk? This'll do the trick”.. urgh! “Oh, yes mum that's fantastic, thank you very much. Are you sure!?” My mum originally bought it for her ‘doing diamonds’ over the double bed (mum's bed resembles the height of the Titanic!) The whole white metal bars (legs) are contactable. They open up about, or at least, six foot in width with a tiny table in the middle. Looks ridiculous and I often wonder why mum would even want to do that to herself (or now me!!). My mum is only 58 years old. I felt like I would just donate it to an elderly person's home once I could afford the new pc and buy a new desk from IKEA not from WANKINTON GENERAL INFIRMERY (where's this from mum!?) This was the plan until one wheel fell off and two others bent the very minute I rolled it across the room!
At this point I've swapped sides of the small box size slither of space that I have in the living room for ‘my office’ so, previously the wallpaper was behind my desk. I can't believe how easily it was for me to switch off from writing for Substack to actually participating in real life. I have been at number 1.
I have two settings:
Completely Obsessed!
Couldn't give a fuck!
There's usually no middle ground and limited fine line of time before switching from one to the other. It's fine now though as I think the fact that I'm here now , already Substack has stood the test of time. Yay!
I say Yay! In the same way a goat might bleet it's Hello!
It's always with a roll of the eye not cute excitement
About nineteen Anne Rice books are part of entire crate of no-longer-needed (I’m not saying unwanted because it's a storage issue not a choice) books stacked together waiting to be rehomed. I had two bags of paperwork to recycle and a bag of rubbish, I made a right mess with this ‘project’ which started with “I need to straighten my desk a bit”.
So, the plan for all these books. I have an RSPCA charity shop directly on the corner of my street. However, the staff and possibly the organisation policy, have a particularly unreachable standard of quality for the condition of items, especially books, which they'll accept and take of you to put up on their shelves.
This is a good idea to have a higher standard than your typical good will / charity shop would usually have set. It's no longer like, ‘beggers can't be choosers’ thank fuck. It's not even as Tesco suggest; ‘every little helps’ or “you'll get what you're given and you'll like it or lump it” —- now I'm just getting carried away with images of my Nana smoking in the kitchen, back in the day, sliding a plate down the table for me to ‘get my tea eat’ (pronounced ‘et). The RSPCA in the northern quarter of Manchester city centre has a certain level of standard that I admire but inwardly, I questioned myself on what my opinion of that is. I always have a mixed reaction, up until right now. Now thinking about it from outside of my own shame and embarrassment. I used to feel upset. Dirty. Now, the penny drops. A lightbulb 💡 moment.
“Maybe they're thinking of the customers above themselves! Not being snobs or ungrateful. “Unwealthy people deserve nice things too” (so why is it charged at ££££ RRP ? ..just saying)
I am a poor unwealthy person and yes my books are too shabby. Second-second-hand purchased cheap from a used book store on eBay called WOB.
Who am I to sit on the fence about their policy or choices. Just a person who was very embarrassed a year ago dropping off ten of my most tidy books, only to be told, sorry we can't take those nobody will buy them in that condition. I almost died. Felt like if I hadn't have left so quickly I might have been stripped down and de-liced, like in Shawshank Redemption. It's Not good.
I thought I would choose the best of two evils and try my luck with the old crust elderly person who owns the longest standing used bookshop, that I can think of (don't quote me of my knowledge - it's fragile), still going strong in Manchester city centre. This guy has been going since I was a kid. He first had a market stall on the corner that we called ‘the barraghs’ then it moved to the other side of the road into small units. I like his shop. I refer to it as The Dot Shop. Every book with a red Sharpie pen dot on the underbody of the books pages, cost only £1 each. I found a dotted book once and the guy's mate was there. He dressed like an old Mod. He was a crank and half. I won't cross that out he was off. Definitely a victim or a winner of his time. He had the people skills of Ted Bundy. Creepy. He tried to rip me off right under my nose. In fact he told me. “You're not having that for a quid” but it's dotted. “No, no, no way. I'll see the boss!” (Muttered to the owner behind se glass partition. I interupt to ask how much will it be. I mean to be honest I only had £11 shopping for food money that day!! I was already impulse buying and splurging a quid on a book when there's nothing in for dinner (or ‘tea’ as we say in Manchester). I was shaking like a shitting dog prepared to go with whatever price they came up with;
A) because I had my heart set on the story.
B) I was too shy too weak to walk away looking like I'm a cheapskate.
What's that you say come before a fall.. of yeah pride. Well luck was on my side that day. They both came out looking at me. I kept a poker face then the (very often usually grumpy) owner barked with a wry smile (I think), “TWO POUND” I had to bite my lip. It was hilarious. I must be the only person to get overcharged by double the money and walk away smirking.
Unfortunately, I blame the spider for leading my mind and focus astray (taken off Substack momentarily) he jumped out right under my sweeping brush and scared me. I had no time for mercy. My feet were bare on the floor, the big hairy legs and fat prune body simply F-U-C-KING terrified me.! I'm so so sorry because my hands took on a life of their own, and I start banging that broom on the floor like a rusty pogo stick… until: spider 0 - 1 me. One more backhanded victory! :/
Eventually, after boredom and with the rigor mortis of enthusiasm setting in, I sped up the organisation of it all, by shoving, stacking, balancing, piling and dumping - here there and anywhere “safe” all my precious shit. Job Done 👍 that's it 💪😄 wow.
TEN MINUTES of sitting on my untrustworthy gaming chair with my cutest jumper protecting it like an amlet. Arm resting cautiously on the wobbly three-wheeler desk, near leaning piles of books. I noticed that all-too-familiar feeling approaching my resigning consciousness, that feeling of “what the fuck have I just done!” - I hate it. I hate the new layout. Great.
I did write a poem that I am quite proud of. Well, I wrote it months ago and printed it when I still had room for my printer (now it's under the stairs again back gathering dust).I recovered this poem sheet from some of the paperwork for recycling. It's weirdly inspired by a DJ dude who I'm friends with on Facebook and he was very poorly with Cancer. I watched his progress, saw photos coming up with his friends and family. I looked at the first photo of the year after remission. I still saw a haunting in his appearance. His aura screaming. I am not qualified to have written about this subject. It's just a poem. I am proud I was brave enough to write this down. 👇
Thank you for reading and being here with me 💓💓💓
