The Joy of Old Newspapers
Jun 23rd, 2007 by Eats Wombats
The wife of a professional friend of mine once confided that her husband was a print addict. Really? I said. What’s that? She then explained that if there was an old newspaper there–pointing as she drove to the floor of the car at my feet–he’d have to read it. Solidarity and truth compelled me to opine that a love of newspapers was entirely normal.
I loathe throwing out newspapers that haven’t been either read or at least skimmed. This is trying for my long suffering spouse. On the other hand, she has been known to dine out on my worst excesses in the unfinished magazines beside the bed dept.
When it comes to newspapers she can only stand a backlog of a week or so on display in the living room. Today she heaved the accumulated pending pile into the TO GO pile that lives behind a curtain until it is shifted to a recycling bin. I was indignant. Why do women have to move things that don’t need to be moved?! Truly, it’s one of life’s mysteries. I resurrected twice as many from the pile, so as to be sure I didn’t miss anything, and I discovered some things I hadn’t seen at all. I probably discarded them at once, as one does, with certain sections. Motoring, e.g., interests neither of us. (We have discussed whether to dispose of our car and rent a zipcar whenever we need a vehicle). The Style section is next to go. We’re just not into overpriced luxuries.
Imagine my surprise when I skimmed a discarded Sunday Times Style section and found the following gem:
It’s 8pm. The kids are in bed. I’m lounging on the sofa, reading a book about chess. I realise that marriage is a game in which the two parents compete for free time. I hear Liv’s keys in the door. I dash over and start washing up. This is tactic one: never be caught doing nothing.
She sighs. Says: “Hello. You okay?”
“Yup. Bit tired.”
This is an exchange of pawns. Both parents plead tiredness. They’re indicating they may be physically incapable of more childcare. A good opening position. “What are we doing tonight?” She’s bringing out a knight. Probing.
I look in my mental diary. It’s empty apart from, Thursday: find worming tablets. “I’d like to see Gary,” I say. I’m advancing a bishop.
Read it all to see how he is checkmated. And beside this a little truffle, the Mrs.Mills solves all your problems page with this very jolly Q&A.
Stop me and buy one
A few weeks ago, I had a word with an ice-cream vendor who parks his van outside my house most days, playing his dingdong music very loudly. I asked him kindly if he would vary his stopping point in the street (as the music vibrates through my house like nails on a blackboard). His reply was a barrage of four-letter words and threats on my life and house. The local council can’t take any action, the local special constables couldn’t care less and I’ve warned the neighbours away. But I want my revenge – what can I do?
MR, west London
My initial reaction to your letter was that you must be a real misery guts to begrudge a few seconds of clanging jollity in the summer months. But then, the ice-cream man’s reaction does seem rather rude. However, you can easily drive him away. Every time you hear his remorseless tune, rush out and give away free ice creams to anyone who turns up to buy one from him. It will cost you a bit, but it shouldn’t be long before he decides to park elsewhere.
Revenge, they say, is a dish best eaten cold. How very true.
Still, I refuse to start reading the Style section. Well, maybe the inside back page. Yes, I admit I would never have discovered these enjoyable morsels if the newspapers hadn’t been moved.
