How Not to Save Oneself from Pecuniary Disadvantage

The ‘Just Fucking Sort It September’ story continues. Because I’m still sorting. Or trying to sort. I’m certainly not, much to my profound disappointment, fucking. And according to various reliable sources (the internet, the small thingy on the bottom of my computer screen, and the feeling in my bones, spleen and unsightly spot on my forehead just below the hairline that luckily I can cover it up) it is still September.

There are some things that are easier to sort than others. For example I have just completed a large and appealingly categorised database of all the authors in the Leaf Anthologies for our spanking new website (not literally spanking obviously, and not up yet so don’t rush to go and look). Should I so desire, at the click of a button I can make the authors all fall into alphabetical order. This is not painful for them and yet strangely pleasing for me. If only all of life were so easy. And obliging. And lacking in pain. And in neat little boxes that line themselves up and can be turned into lots of colours.

But, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I am obliged to tackle heftier tasks than spreadsheets. So, undaunted, back to the shed I go.

This is what happened:

Before I even managed to enter the shed I was arrested by a thought. The thought in question, was ‘The outside shed is very full.’
I was then arrested by a follow-on thought. ‘What the fuck am I going to do with all this stuff?’
I was then arrested by a follow-on follow-on thought. ‘I might need it.’

This double follow-on thought was of great significance. Because, you see, previously, when the outdoor shed was first invented by the Beloved, and a canny thought it was too, we were rich. And so the contents (is that the right word for a collection of articles that is bounded by no more than fresh air?) was junk.

Now, however I am about to be poor. Life has been cunningly redefined. Thus junk is now redefined. As useful stuff. As valuable goods. As items that could be cleverly dismantled into their constituent parts of mdf, nails, screws, small unknowable metal things and little plastic contraptions to stop doors slamming and sold on ebay for what I hope will be a small fortune. I have unwittingly come across the solution to single motherhood poverty.

I look at the skies. I think it might rain. I heft the contents of the outdoor shed back into the indoor shed to protect my valuable assets from the dangers of corrosion, rust and bird-shit.

Just Fucking Sorted.

Beginning to suspect that this may take more than September. Perhaps October as well. But since ‘Just Fucking Sort It October’ doesn’t have the same ring about it I may have to consider ‘Just Fucking Organise it October’. Still, always nice to have something to look forward to, that’s what I say.