bubbling enthusiasm for $arbitrary_topic
I can hear them calling my name, their voices in my head, tormenting me, torturing me, beckoning me, tempting me…
'Suw,' they say. 'Buy us,' they say. 'Stock up on us. Because you won't find us when you move to the Arseendofnowhere…'
What can I do but obey?
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If you've read much of my blog lately you'll know that I'm several miles beyond skint. I have a small house in north Wales' worth of debt, and currently no job.
Now, being British, and having been brought up to believe that asking for stuff is wrong, I would never normally do this, but I'm going to swallow my pride and do it anyway. In the gutter I've put a PayPal tip jar. I would like to garner enough money so that I can buy Sophocles, some nifty script writing software which would make my life much, much easier. I can't really justify spending real money on it, but I could get away with spending PayPal money on it if that money was given to me specifically for that purpose.
Now, I don't get a huge number of people through this blog, but if you all gave me a quid (or a couple of dollars), I'd have enough to buy Sophocles. I hope that you all have enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy, reading what I write, and that you feel that it's worth a quid.
Thank you all kindly.
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I really don't like packing. Have I mentioned that yet? It's ok if there are two of you and you can talk and while away the time whilst your hands are putting things in boxes, but it is quite the most dull thing to do on your own.
Still, I'm shredding absolutely anything that could be used against me, so that affords me some small pleasure. Not quite sure why, but it's very satisfying to see pieces of paper reduced to, er, smaller pieces of paper.
Ah well, best get on with it.
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I feel like I've been hit by a truck. It's 1.15am, and I'm bloody knackered. I wanted to clear out the filing cabinet – four drawers of indespensible junk – but I've only managed 3/4 of it. The last drawer I can't face. The rest have been sorted and boxed, though. One day I'll have to go through all the papers in there and throw out what I actually don't need, and convert to digital form anything that is amenable to such a process.
Being self-employed means that you have to keep every last sodding receipt for something like seven years. So I trek from house to house with a half tonne of shit that most normal people wouldn't even keep for a week. Ah the joys of being me.
For a while this evening, though, I felt like I wasn't me – I was someone a lot like me but who doesn't have these problems. Someone who doesn't get halfway through clearing out the lounge only to remember 'Oh shit, there's all that crap behind the sofa too'. Oh, I'm so good at ferreting stuff away. For a while, I wasn't here, I felt transported to somewhere else. Somewhere infinitely nicer. Somewhere possibly warm, with blue skies and the sound of lapping waves on a beach. Or maybe somewhere in the mountains, buzzards crying on the wind and spiraling up into the blue.
I wish I felt like that more often.
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