Since I boxed up all my TATTPIB accoutrement I confess that I have come across the occasional stowaway item; a fridge magnet in a drawer, a scrunched up replica shirt at the bottom of the wardrobe (I know, no respect for the shirt) and whenever this happens I quickly chuck it into the pit of ‘football cold-turkey doom’, more commonly known as the big cardboard box in the spare room. The pace and responsiveness usually leaves me feeling quite sure that I remain within the self-imposed rules of my TATTPIB exile (see July’s ‘Them’s the Rules’ post) and I congratulate myself on a job well done.
Trouble is I hadn’t reckoned on the eagle eyes of my mother who was a recent visitor to St Albans, checking out Chez TLF. And that really is the problem with parents. You can be all growed up, have joined the ranks of the property owning classes, BUT when you’ve done wrong it’s like the years just melt away and you are holding a note from school about some misdemeanour/have been found with a packet of 10 B&H in your skool bag/are telling your mum you are not going out with the most unsuitable boy in the whole skool – honest/confessing you have forgotten to do all manner of things or indeed have done all manner of things. (Delete as applicable)
And so it proved as in the middle of a very jolly evening in the lovely Singhili Kitchen, she turned to me and said, “And what about the bin?” For a minute the Kingfisher embalmed brain sort of seized, what was she on about? And then it dawned on me, that effing TATTPIB bin in the bathroom (“how appropriate” some of my crueller readers may say). The fact that it had survived the cull was in all honesty less about my former football allegiances and more about it being a handy bin. Still there was no getting out of it, and like a Championship player discussing spot-fixing with the NCA after being caught on tape (a long but topical metaphor) I was caught banged to rights and promised that said bin would go into said box.
The thing is that was my 12 year old self speaking. My 44 year old self who is already finding the whole ‘buying things for the house, like loo roll holders and now bathroom bins’ a bit dull and a waste of money that could frankly be invested in sensible things like Stella and bacon fries, has decided to be a bit more creative. It might not be very IKEA but until the club shop at Clarence Park starts selling SACFC bins then this might just have to do.