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Aug. 13th, 2007 08:00 pmA fairly quiet shift, helped along by the presence on the nibbles table of the last half-dozen of a box of chocs, a Terry's Chocolate Orange Mint bar, and a little carrier bag stuffed with Royal Caribbean Airlines complimentary squares of chocolate. I have to admit to having partaken freely throughout the shift, but hey, I was out late last night and got up at 6.15 this morning to get washed and dressed before Airline came on Sky Three - I needed the energy infusion (literally - I was feeling very sleepy during an interview just past the halfway mark of the shift).
Arrived home to find one of those leaflets saying "We will buy your old bric-a-brac" had been put through the letterbox. Idly studying it, I noticed they were offering to buy old football programmes and all kinds of watches. Being skint, and having been wanting to clear out loads of old footy programmes for months, I rang the number on the leaflet and told the guy I had a load of old programmes. He asked how old were they, I said mostly 1990s and he said he'd be round within the hour.
So I hurriedly shifted all the boxes in my bedroom, sorting out the many old programmes I'm looking to get shot of (I'm keeping all my Fisher and Hawks ones of course) - to my delight I discovered the hoard of pristine condition progs from Wembley finals, Birmingham, West Brom and Portsmouth plus odds and ends that I amassed as a kid. These, I was sure, would fetch enough to get me to the girls' FA Women's Cup tie at Tooting.
I also took out the gent's watch, supposedly Harrods, that I bought at an auction for my mother's Mayor's Charities last year but that I can't wear as it irritates my skin. That, with its presentation box, would surely go for a few quid.
The bastard never turned up.
Humped the two boxes of programmes disconsolately back up the stairs, where they are now sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor like a helicopter on a tennis court. And I won't be getting to Tooting.
Pah.
Arrived home to find one of those leaflets saying "We will buy your old bric-a-brac" had been put through the letterbox. Idly studying it, I noticed they were offering to buy old football programmes and all kinds of watches. Being skint, and having been wanting to clear out loads of old footy programmes for months, I rang the number on the leaflet and told the guy I had a load of old programmes. He asked how old were they, I said mostly 1990s and he said he'd be round within the hour.
So I hurriedly shifted all the boxes in my bedroom, sorting out the many old programmes I'm looking to get shot of (I'm keeping all my Fisher and Hawks ones of course) - to my delight I discovered the hoard of pristine condition progs from Wembley finals, Birmingham, West Brom and Portsmouth plus odds and ends that I amassed as a kid. These, I was sure, would fetch enough to get me to the girls' FA Women's Cup tie at Tooting.
I also took out the gent's watch, supposedly Harrods, that I bought at an auction for my mother's Mayor's Charities last year but that I can't wear as it irritates my skin. That, with its presentation box, would surely go for a few quid.
The bastard never turned up.
Humped the two boxes of programmes disconsolately back up the stairs, where they are now sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor like a helicopter on a tennis court. And I won't be getting to Tooting.
Pah.
