I like collective nouns. Who doesn’t, right? A flamboyance of flamingoes. A charm of goldfinches. A murder of crows. A wank of actors.
It occured to me that come my seventies I am going to be one of those women who have to be lifted by crane via the roof of my house because it is so full of junk and trinkets. Small children will come and point and laugh at me as I am hoisted into the air, still trying to grab hold of my wedgewood teapot shaped like a fucking pig or something. Teens will take pictures on their phones which – it being the future and all – will be instruments the size of a pinhead and capable of nuclear deployment. Some reporter will take a sleazy ‘upskirt’ shot as I dangle over his head, and the headline in the Sunday Sport the next day will be ‘LOOK AT THIS MINGE’.
I’ll have filled my utility room with stuffed animals and bad taxidermy and the firemen trying to get through it will have to use axes to break down the doors.
In short, MY LIFE WILL BE AWESOMER.
As such, the collective noun for charity shop items bought and stored is a HYPERBOLE OF JUNK. Here is some more. Look at it. Look at it. LOOK.
Who’s this sinister motherfucker? Those brown eyes say ‘puppy’, the face says ‘I will eat your soul while you sleep’.
Tactile, sexy Mug = 50penctons
Original erogenous Flask = £1.0000000
Oil Painting Erection = £2pounds
It’s a candle featuring the original and still the best Mary I can think of. (Sorry all other Marys. Maybe you’re doing something wrong? Have you considered immaculate conception and the bearing of the Son of God? Thought not. That’s why you’re not the greatest Mary. You need to up your Mary game don’t you? Lazy, aren’t you? LAZY)
Mexican candle for Drink and Drug Addiction (says so on back) £1!
Vintage fabric which I have made into a curtain in my kitchen to cover the hole beneath the worktop as it invokes lustful thoughts in the hearts and minds of decent men and also because I stuck my washing machine in there. £1ne poind.
Future me will be cryogenically frozen for the sole purpose of coming back in a thousand years when all travel has been reduced to sending a hologram of yourself on holiday and I will dig out this old suitcase and point to the label on it thus and bore on and on and on about how times have changed like a withered old windbag while my great, great, great grandchildren make wanker signs behind my back and ask people why I smell.