As a teenager I would get the bus into Manchester city
centre on a Saturday and return with some ill-advised 'fashionable' clothes and
some records.
I would buy at least two vinyl LP's a week – based on recommendations in the NME - which
arrived through my letterbox every Thursday morning.
On moving to the north east I
would buy records and cd's in Newcastle in much the same way – but a little less
frequently to allow for social expenses. I even remember pre-ordering the first
Daft Punk single for collection on release date. Who did I think I was? Maude hated it and would say
‘please don’t play Daft Cunt again.’
Now I buy second-hand cd’s from the charity shop across the
road from work - as my Honda 'people carrier' has a cd player. They cost £1 per cd and occasionally I find a gem: the first
Arctic Monkeys album for instance. Last week I bought a Bob Dylan box set for
£3 (3 discs and I was honest about that when the elderly volunteer asked). I then found it new online for £80. It’s been knocking about the car now though – so
it’ll not go on ebay.
The cd’s in the charity shop seem to arrive in clearly
discernible batches.
Harry Secombe albums and collections of marching band music
say ‘house clearance’ and ‘dead senior’.
A dozen or so indie albums from the 90’s will often appear
in one go – usually on a Monday, after a weekend donation. A batch like that makes
me think that a spurned woman has found petty revenge on the boyfriend or
husband of 20 years who has suddenly told her that he needs some space. Things have come to a head over the course of a weekend. His
return to their flat to pick up the ‘last of his stuff’ would be fruitless. The
lock would be changed and the voice from the letterbox would offer the
following advice:
‘Try the fucking charity shop!’
Or perhaps a widow can’t bear the sight of her prematurely
dead husband’s cd’s anymore and has plucked up the courage to donate them to
the hospice charity which did, after all, look after him as he ‘lost his brave
battle’.
There is also the possibility that a forty something guy or
woman has decided to Marie Kondo or ‘Queereye’
themselves and clear away all physical media they own. ‘Haven’t you heard of streaming!’
one of the Queer Eye guys exclaimed recently as they boxed up all of the dvd’s
and cd’s which had dominated a slovenly middle-aged man’s trailer home.
I realised I was becoming a shop regular when I didn’t have the
£1 required to pay for my single cd selection last Monday. I couldn’t pay on a
card, as it was below the shop limit for cards. The nice volunteer lady just
said:
‘Don’t worry, just pay next time you’re in.’
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