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seraphflightSo, that's the Sunday tasks done. Laundry, done. Bathroom, cleaned. Potatoes peeled. Car boot sale, cancelled again due to the field where it's held being a muddy mess even before any cars or vans or a few thousand feet have passed over it. I guess the organisers can do without their clients staggering away with broken limbs.
I so envy those wonderful-looking thrift stores which other countries seem to have - huge places, crammed with all kinds of unwanted bargains (or other peoples' junk, depending on how you look at it). All we have here are pongy charity shops with manky clothes priced way too high for glorified dish rags, and shelves filled by ornaments more appropriately seen on a parochial coconut stall where they're the targets, not the prize.
Having said that, I can't resist having a mooch around. Yesterday I came home with a set of six vintage drinking glasses, some pretty cloth bunting, (though I haven't a clue what I'm going to do with it now I've got it!), and an embroidered Thingy which I've pinned to the front of one of my fireplaces. Don't worry, it's not a fire hazard - I never light that gas fire as it's hazard in itself which needs fixing with a new one.
I also popped into a pop-up art exhibition yesterday, too, which had made use of a vacated department store. Surely these were first year students? The work was amusing, but amateur. But they were pretty young men, and everyone knows that pretty young men can and do get away with murder. If a bunch of portly middle-aged women had produced the same art, they'd have received nothing but scornful reviews.
Take, for example, a novel called Hate: A Romance by Tristan Garcia. It won France's Prix de Flore, whatever that might be. It garnered heaps of praise. So I read it, and yawned all through it's badly written pages. But the author was young and pretty. He's written other stuff since, mostly non-fiction. I've not read those.
I so envy those wonderful-looking thrift stores which other countries seem to have - huge places, crammed with all kinds of unwanted bargains (or other peoples' junk, depending on how you look at it). All we have here are pongy charity shops with manky clothes priced way too high for glorified dish rags, and shelves filled by ornaments more appropriately seen on a parochial coconut stall where they're the targets, not the prize.
Having said that, I can't resist having a mooch around. Yesterday I came home with a set of six vintage drinking glasses, some pretty cloth bunting, (though I haven't a clue what I'm going to do with it now I've got it!), and an embroidered Thingy which I've pinned to the front of one of my fireplaces. Don't worry, it's not a fire hazard - I never light that gas fire as it's hazard in itself which needs fixing with a new one.
I also popped into a pop-up art exhibition yesterday, too, which had made use of a vacated department store. Surely these were first year students? The work was amusing, but amateur. But they were pretty young men, and everyone knows that pretty young men can and do get away with murder. If a bunch of portly middle-aged women had produced the same art, they'd have received nothing but scornful reviews.
Take, for example, a novel called Hate: A Romance by Tristan Garcia. It won France's Prix de Flore, whatever that might be. It garnered heaps of praise. So I read it, and yawned all through it's badly written pages. But the author was young and pretty. He's written other stuff since, mostly non-fiction. I've not read those.
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