I’ve been at it again. You say: “At what again? Wittering on? Forgetting where you put your brain? Being hospitalised after trying DIY?”
Madam, you do me a disservice. I do not witter; I discourse. I do not have a brain to lose. And I’ve never needed hospitalising after doing DIY, though I’ve several times had to call NHS 24 and once had to request help from an emergency rescue helicopter.
No, here’s what I’ve been doing: organising my CD collection alphabetically. Yes, it’s that time again. After moving house, I shoved them into the their shelves willy and, arguably, nilly. I’d sort them later. But later got later and later until l decided the time was now.
Oh dear. It probably sounds to you like the best fun ever, but the truth is it can be very trying. How so? Because it’s a tight fit on the shelves. Barely room for any more CDs at the moment. And just when I think I’ve got them organised, I find another one under a cushion or in the toaster.
Then all the others have to bunch up the bed while I slot the stray one in. Then there are more in the car. Then there are the alphabetical conundrums. Does Bertie Lee Bloomers go under L for Lee or B for Bloomers? Does Freddie Cacophony go under C for Cacophony or X for his Xylophone Blues Band?
There are the pesky ones whose names aren’t clear on the CD’s spine or who put it on upside down. Yes, it’s a hard life being me. So much pain and angst.
The irony is that, other than in the car, I hardly listen to CDs now but just go on yonder internet. Same with vinyl. Not that I listen to LP records in the car – be difficult putting them on the turntable while driving; and they’d probably jump about a bit.
No, I mean I rarely listen to them. But somehow they were easier to organise, possibly just because they’re bigger, and I also got more enjoyment out of looking at the covers – real artwork writ large – and more of a nostalgic kick because they were older, stretching back to my teens.
I also had cassettes to organise, not just proper ones but home-recorded efforts – not so much a matter of alphabetising these as labelling them, as I often hadn’t bothered to do so at the time. Thus, I had to listen to them through, a disconcerting experience in which a recording of Dad’s Army would suddenly be interrupted by an overlain burst of me trying to play Powder Your Nose With Sunshine on electric guitar.
Indeed, there are many recording of me playing guitar (in my room, of course) in the 1990s. People compared me to Jimi Hendrix. They said: “Compared to Jimi Hendrix” – all together now, shout it out – “you’re rubbish.”
There are even odder things on the cassettes such as shorthand tests. As with the guitar playing, I was better at that back then than I am now, though I haven’t forgotten it. I just can’t read it back.
Ach well. At least all this alphabetical organising kept me off the streets. What to do now that I’ve finished? Maybe I’ll go down the supermarket and start on their shelves.
