I loaded it carefully. Sundry knick-knacks and formerly personal things like old birthday cards, torn up letters and tat on the bottom, out of reach. Then three bags of clothes for the second layer. Then some old rug and flat pillows to top the thing off, the neatest skip in Dublin.
Then I went to town for a potter, something to eat and some afternoon refreshments with the barely accented one.
I got home around 7pm to find two people, a 'man' and a 'woman' drinking cans around it and making a bollix of my system.
"Lads, eh, what the fuck...?"
I shoo'd them off with the bribe of a can and the threat of the guards, throwing good liquor after bad.
Fuckers came back. Of course they came back.
I went out this morning to check on it and saw bits of me everywhere, in no particular order.
One page of a horrible diatribe, on display. The single ESB bill that I threw out by mistake, on display. Cards and clothes, cases and remnants of nights out, of nights in, of three and a bit years on display.
I set back to work and tidied it up through a hoor of a headache, and I'm writing this now while waiting for Mr. Celtic Jersey to pick it up.
Mr. and Mrs. Scumbag are at the bottom, under the throwaway carpet. Don't fuck with Mister Zero.