Put it up in me passage….

So she’s been at a garage sale Sunday morning and come home to tell me. It was pretty crap.
Three tables of ancient Avon.
A history, a museum of Avon.
Every year of three decades represented in the novelty glass bottles of cat’s piss passed off as perfume.
30 years’ worth of Thursday night gossip, bitching about each other all on the pretext of selling shit to each other. Worthless shit, but it was CHEAP so it must have been a bargain.
Three giant trestle tables. The sturdy type of arrangement made in the 40’s for the church ‘functions’, made out of bloody Jarrah, or Karri or some such and still going strong, with barely a dent. It would’ve taken all three plus a husband to set ’em up. Said husband is nowhere to be seen now of course. Sloped of to the bar at the footy club to nurse one small beer for the afternoon and tell skites.
Three women of a certain age sit at the “pay me” table. Biddies all, or the witches from the Scottish play. Goodie Whatsit and her mates from “the Crucible, or even Madame Defarge and her cronies knitting while the heads role at the guillotine. [I was really upset when I discovered she was a fiction of Dickens’.]
They aren’t that old actually. Sixtyish going on a couple of millennia. Harsh nasal parrot voices you’d recognise.


They’re talking about going to the cemetery. One doesn’t go.

“Well what’s the point? It’s not like they’re THERE or anything is it.”

One DOES go, but resents the effort.

The last…

“Oh well I LIKED to go, to see Uncle and Auntie, I LIKED Uncle and Auntie, but you know, my nieces and nephew got together now that I can’t get there anymore and got a lovely big picture of them, all blown up really big and framed you know, it’s lovely.

I’m going to get them to put it up in me passage.”


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