I do, I admit, get very attached to stupid, broken, things.
I have a small plastic pig on the shelf beside me, in fact, that I used to carry around in my pocket when I was six or so. His head comes off. I used to hide small things inside. Crack cocaine, mainly. No, not really, that story was just sounding a bit cute.
So I started going around taking pictures of my favourite things for one of my birthday challenges, and though I never had time to put the whole thing together, theyll probably form the basis of a few posts in the weeks and months to come. Although these two I didnt take then. I took them in the last couple of weeks.
These are two of my favourite things.
Thats my season ticket. I was handed it over a year ago, when I wasnt even sure that moving to Brighton was a good idea – and certainly not an idea that warrented paying several thousand pounds for a thin piece of cardboard.
I had an inkling that perhaps they hadnt thought the whole thing through, and that perhaps for the amount of money, they could have produced a ticket that would definitely last the whole year out of gold. Or mink, or something. Caviar, frozen in see-through platinum. But no. It was cardboard.
As My Beloved went through his cardboard tickets like the clappers though, I became more and more dedicated to my piece of flim. Yes, it was rubbish, but that was why I was going to MAKE it work, MAKE it last, and Make them well aware that they had a bull-headed commuter on their hands that couldnt be beaten by a And theyd know that, by Um Me not speaking to them ever.
I, the stubbornest person in Christendom as it is, took all my stubbornness out on keeping my pet piece of cardboard alive. If there was a man standing by an open ticket gate, Id swerve away, take my ticket out, and stick it through the gate anyway, because otherwise It Didnt Count. Over the last few months, my ticket has thinned down to tissue paper around the edges. The pressure of being pushed through four machines a day, however many days of the last year, has left it delicate and soft to the touch.
Ive prised it from its holder with my finger tips, held it like the turin shroud, and fed it into the ticket gate like prosciutto to a baby (can you feed prosciutto to a baby? God, Im going to be a terribly mother one day).
This week my ticket ran out. I have my new one, but, you know, I just wanted to mark the passing of Old Faithful.
Yes, Im being sentimental about a ticket. What? What?!
Fukoff. First person to say PMS gets punched in the knees.
Anyway. Other favourite thing – my bracelet. It is from a flea market in Lisbon. It cost about 1/3000th of the flimsy piece of cardboard, and its hardier by far, but thats not why I love it.
From far away, it looks quite tasteful. And then you get closer, and realise it isnt. Not really, not really at all.
Everywhere I go I always want to find the perfect perfect annaesque object, and for once it leapt into my hand.
Or around it.
The amount I love this small, broken, worthless and – yes – ugly object right now is a thing that has to be witnessed to be believed. I show it off to people like an engagement ring. I smile when I spot it on my wrist.
It is one of my favourite things.
And I wil bite anyone who says anything against it. Hard. Somewhere hurty.
Also anyone who says the other thing (after punching them).