It’s been a funny old week, I bumped into a man running along the street holding an ice cream with flames coming out of the top on his way to London.
Moving and downsizing can be a difficult juggling game. Do I sacrifice my leaning wine glass for my fez or should the turban hold the socks to save space? Will the rubbish hand grabber ever be used again and are the gold super hero undies still a good fit? Is the plastic pig harmonica too fiddly in shape and should I ditch my newspaper packaging and temporarily pack in polystyrene kung fu? The Henry vacuum cleaner could be converted into a robot or used to relocate the parrot (joke). And then there’s the paperwork, oh I will worry about that later.
Right, back to business. Should I keep the chimes and Freecycle the comedy cymbals or perhaps I could ditch the lot and never use props ever again.
The recycling parties outside Embassy Court are fun, Brighton tat-meisters are quicker than the gas man that slips a card in your letter box to say he has called, after you spent ten hours waiting for him and you nip out for a pint of milk.
Plonk a box of books on the street and it’s like a scene from James Bond where the piranhas devour a chicken in ten seconds, the books whittle, whittle and whittle until there is just DIY with Sellotape resting at the bottom of the box cemetery.