I’m totally out-jiffied here. I thought I was going to clean the house. Instead I have spent some time in the basement. We needed to find our tools, and we couldn’t, for all the jiffy-bags. Such is the professional hazard of a book blogger. I suffer for my art. (OK, and I quite enjoy myself, too.)
So by the expedient moving of several million jiffy-bags from tool room to laundry room (logical, I know) we could get at the tools. And in order to put some more washing on, the jiffies needed sorting pronto. Hence the lack of a clean house and a de-jiffied basement.
I was brought up to be frugal and not throwing away jiffy-bags is a virtue hard to give up on. You never know when they’ll come in handy. Never, by the looks of those tottering piles. Oh, I send the odd thing in the post, and the pleasure I get from not having to buy a padded envelope is great, but they kept piling up. As fast as the books one floor up, actually. Maybe the two are related, somehow.
Three sacks, I threw out. It had to be the day after the rubbish collection. But at least it’s now piling up outside the house.
And bubble wrap. I didn’t know I had so much! And tissue paper and brown paper for parcels. Plastic carrier bags. Loads.
Hah. All neat and tidy now, and I am not allowed to put any more of those by. Son had also saved the LP sized boxes my Roger Whittaker collection off eBay arrived in. In case we were ever selling them again… As if.
Oh, yes, and a 750g bottle of salt. Full.
Can’t explain that.