This is what I am staring at…

– A Christmas tree, which if it was a person would be the drunk at the office party, unconscious, covered in puke, dribbling whilst leaning heavily against the wall flashing obscenely.

– A sofa which is going tomorrow on freecycle and which I must remember to excavate the remotes from.

– Speakers which used to belong to the Royal Albert Hall and which John has eviscerated, removing the drivers from them, which Lula has since been using as the bases for her ginormous imaginary jam tarts.

– A table, still to be disassembled, once I’ve had the energy to clear up the ink stamp sets, glitter, glue and carved up Christmas cards that Lula has done an Emin on (or an Amin).

Oh, and one drooping plant which was supposed to be picked up 59 minutes ago. I had 2 dozen offers on that pot plant – you’d think they’d be punctual when it’s FREE. Maybe they thought it was a different kind of pot plant.

We have approximately 3.5 days left to deal with the crap surrounding us. Our house is like the magic porridge pot of crap. No matter how much we scoop up and pour into the loft more keeps appearing.  I wish I could freecycle John’s records. But he’d divorce me if I did.

The chosen woman (I like freecycle – it sort of makes you feel like God or Simon Cowell, hand picking people to receive your bounty based on the quality of their supplication), anyway the woman who just picked up some old doors and a wardrobe,  angled to get her hands on John’s records too. I hesitated before I prised them from her fingers and told them they weren’t available.  She then tried to steal off with our 8ft x 8ft canvas – the one featuring my naked butt. It’s still in the house because strangely the Tate never got back to me.

Hey this is not a bootsale I felt like yelling as she peeled the plastic cover off it.

‘Wow, fabulous,’ she said.

‘Yeah, we made it,’ I said trying to distract her from the canvas before she figured out that particular splat she was admiring was not my butt. ‘So this is the plinth. Do you want that too?’

‘Plinth?’ She says looking at me weirdly.

‘Yes. On the phone, you said you wanted the plinth.’

‘No, think I’ll leave that. Is this the print you mentioned? Can I have it?’ She asked turning back to the canvas.

‘Plinth! I said plinth.’

Now back away from the canvas, get out of my garage and be on your way.

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