So, I was good today. I had a bit of a lie in (that's not the good bit, although it was very nice) and then got up and started writing. All went well, and I've got myself two days ahead of schedule word-count-wise, which is ace as it means there's a chance I might just be able to get hammered over my birthday weekend and not think about work at all (yep, I turn 31 on 10th May so I'm getting distinct 'must be a grown up' pangs every few hours, which probably explains all the guilt)
I then decided, looking round my flat, that it needed a bit of moving around. Nothing major - just moving the wardrobe from my office (long story) to my bedroom. Which goes some way to explaining why I'm currently sitting surrounded by piles of books, items of clothing and random tat. I thought it would be so simple; empty wardrobe, move it to bedroom, move contents of wardrobe back inside it. I forgot one important thing. My wardrobe has become the furniture equivalent of a TARDIS, with me hurriedly shoving stuff into it whenever the office gets into a total tip and I remember I've got someone coming round to film/have dinner/indulge in crude activities/all of the above. As such, the contents, when removed from the wardrobe, took up most of my office.
Cue major clear out. I now have three bin-bags worth of stuff for the charity shop and two bags of rubbish. And a floor that is still covered with random tat. For the first half hour, it was fun clearing through stuff, not least because it brought back a load of memories as I stumbled across things that various exes had left behind (they had good taste in DVDs, I'll give them that) Among the other things that I need to get rid of, but am really not sure the charity shop is the best place for, are:
- A pair of knee high lace-up buckled black brand new biker boots (size 7). They're gorgeous but I foolishly bought them at the Erotica show when I was wasted. Through the haze of many lagers, they were comfortable and easy to walk in. Then I got them home. To break them in, I decided to wear them under my jeans to the corner shop (which is about 3 minutes from my house) By the time I got back, I was in agony. I am so not a high heel girl. Even if the heels are metal and pointy and kinkily stunning.
- A black PVC mini trenchcoat, bought in a charity shop on a whim. I realised when I tried it on in front of a mirror (it was £5 and I was in a rush, OK?) that it made me look like a hooker. And not in a good way.
- A full set of Loving Angles sex furniture I was given to review. I reviewed it. My flat is not big enough to accomodate it. This sucks.
- A pole dancing pole. Again, I was given it to review. Sadly, it needs to be screwed into the ceiling. I live in rented accomodation. My landlady would *really* not apprciate a pole-dancing pole screwed into the ceiling. She won't even let me put up book cases.
I would put them on Ebay but I'm crap at posting things because I never get the time to get to the post office. So, it looks like my local charity shop will resemble a high-class sex shop in a few weeks time when I get round to persuading a mate to drive me round there (see, another guilt thing - nearly 31 and still can't drive. I've lost track of the amount of things that I really need to get sorted in my life. Self-loathing is easier)
Anyway, the pile of rubbish in the floor isn't getting any smaller while I type, so I guess I'd better get back to it. Ho hum.
Posted by emilyd at May 02, 2005 10:11 PM