Show Us Your Thing

Everyone has a Thing.

Or 2. Or 3.

You know, a Thing.

Maybe you can't quite remember how it started but now, it has become something that you compulsively have to do (or definitely NOT do).

I am going to have to give you a f'instance, innit?

But, before I do, remember, you asked, and you must not judge me.

Also, when you DO judge me, as I know you will, bear in mind that you have a Thing too and we are going to find it.

Your little sneaky, hidey-away, Barely Even Knew It Was There, Thing.

Right, I am going to man-up and start us off:

The One About New Magazines or Newspapers

I am a bit better now but it really bothers me, when I've got a freshly purchased mag or paper & I'm not the first one to open/read it.

I know when this started.
1990.  First Year at Uni.

This newsagent is more upmarket to that one back in the 90's

Lemon Sherbets - 20p would get you the
small pile outside the bag.
These people must be millionaires.

Living in Halls (of Residence), every Sunday morning, a few of us would drag ourselves to the newsagents (on Roehampton Lane, SW15, London. In case you know it) for our post-fry-up, Student Hangover Survival pack (which still totally works, btw) of Ribena, Frazzles and 20p worth of Lemon Sherbets.

Whose mouth is watering?

Also, 2 newspapers.

The News of The World (I hang my head in shame now)

&

The Times on Sunday.

We felt that these 2 publications would provide us with all the information we might require, with the broadsheet somehow cancelling out the filthy shame of the NoTW.  Even then, you felt a bit grubby after reading it.

Anyway, back to The Thing.

The words "ooooo, can I have a quick look at your paper?".

I hate those words.

Although I never said as much. Just handed it over. Seems I had no spine in the early 90's.

"NO!, fellow Inspiral Carpet-humming, 50 denier be-tighted, DM-shod, Have My Own Kettle now so can Make Tea in my room using Marvel milk powder*", I wished I could scream "get your own paper!!!".

*one felt dead sophisticated to invite another lever-arch folder toting, "What time is your next lecture?" student back to One's room to offer them a tea, or oh my days!, a COFFEE.

I hauled my arse to the shop.  You didn't.

The anticipation of opening a virgin newspaper (I wonder. Is it possible that Dad & I are the only people to never take the one from the top, always take the 2nd? We might share a Thing) is bliss.

The smell.  The crisp pages. You know it is pure because they are still a little pinned together from the paper-cutting process (or something).  The static between the pages of the magazine supplement.

The second someone else opens it, all that fresh, 'you are my first' loveliness it is lost forever.

A tad dramatic perhaps but this is my Thing so I get to be a bit potty about it.

AND they always return all untidy. Pages all akimbo. Awful.  Violated. Soiled.

I tried to pretend nothing had changed when the paper came back to me. We tried. We went through the motions. Paper & I. But, we both knew it was over.

You may think this is pretty bad but, Sweetie, it gets worse.

Although, as they say things have to get worse before they can get better.

It was on this day that I compelled myself to make a change.  To have a little word with myself and vow to no longer allow myself to be That Person.

It was a Sunday morning.

And I found myself in the Halls of Residence laundry room (I don't really recall going there that much during the normal course of events) ...........

........... standing at the ironing board, iron in hand (again, think that must have been 1 of the 6 times during the 4 years at Uni that I ever stood there)  .........

...... effing-well IRONING my paper!!

Dear God.


It was like the fog cleared and I stared at the iron in my hand.

Holy SH*T! Girl, you are at a crossroads.  Which path do you want to go down? Choose wisely because, there is no going back if you chose to continue down the one signposted 'Bonkers Lady who Irons Newspaper'.

Phew.  I chose good.

I feel I dodged a big ol' cuckoo bullet.

UPDATE
I am MUCH better now but, bear with me if I hold on a little longer than seems right as I hand you my paper, I am still a Work In Progress.

So, there you have it.

***********************

Go on, your turn. Show us your Thing.

You know you want to.