Ethnic Plinker Thing.

Today I’m exfoliating my room; detoxing would be another suitable word. I’m not just Botoxing the rubbish into smooth piles to make it look fresh and useful I’m waxing off the dead sloth, giving my under-desk nooks a brazilian. But this involves serious questions. Will I ever read old notebooks with sketches of plumbing diagrams, four-year-old lists of required pipe fittings and reams of why I feel shit today? Will I really ever need ‘University Mathematics’ by Blakey circa 1964 and two Beta tapes of home movies when I’ve nothing to play them on? No, my shelves are full of CDs I’ll never play and books I’ll never read and more than likely haven’t read in the first place. I’ve a wardrobe half full of cloths I’ll never wear and an old sideboard sized TV I never watch. Then there’s the really tricky bits and pieces. A sitar I’ve been meaning to mend for several years, an ethnic plinker thing, an alarm clock that would work perfectly if it had a new battery and a life sized stuffed dog that used to be a roving reporter for this very blog. It’s not that if I threw all this stuff out I’d have twice as much space it’s that it’s like dead skin accumulating imperceptibly adding its own historical psychological aroma to my life, much like everything in our house collects a layer of cat hair. It’s not even that I’m attached to the stuff it’s my post war psyche not coming to terms with our disposable culture. For me if you’ve got something you’ve got it for life, until you or it dies, whichever is the former. So anyone want an ethnic plinker thing? It still plinks.