Love Is for Losers by Wibke Brueggemann (ebook pc reader .txt) 📗

We pulled out all the bin bags and hoovered underneath, where you can still see the original color of the carpet.

The thing about tidying is that at first it looks even worse than before you started, and for a moment, we were like: What have we done?

We checked for quality stuff in the older donations, and Kate was like: “If it’s completely unsalvageable, just put it in the rag bin.”

We chucked a lot. Here’s a list of some of the shit we found:

a sports bag full of tighty-whities (not new ones)

sheer tights, used and laddered

one yellow flipper with a picture of Donald Duck on it

Totally Plantbased eyeshadow palette with actual mold on it

a wallet with actual mold on it

The Ten Best Walks on the Isle of Wight with actual mold on it

Needless to say, none of these items qualified to become the new donation of the week. We’re still to decide on one.

James was mainly on the shop floor today, reorganizing the entire books and media section. I watched him for a while, all biceps and dimples, and then I imagined kissing him, but literally nothing happened to my insides.

Tuesday, March 27 #EasterCardHell

Emma and I had breakfast at Starbucks this morning. It was brilliant. We both had croissants. At the shop, the Easter card situation was getting out of hand. I wrote a long email to Mum about it, and I told her that she’s so lucky she’s in a country that doesn’t believe in Easter.

At one point today there was a queue to the door of people wanting to buy cards, and one woman was getting proper aggressive when someone was like: “Excuse me, can I please get past you and leave the shop?”

Isn’t it funny how it’s always the old people, who have all day every day to do things, who end up waiting until the very last minute and then complain that they have to queue? I mean, we’ve had Easter cards for weeks. Why do you need to buy them three days before Easter? And we all know when Easter is, because it says it in all the calendars, very much unlike Eid, which is only ever in the posh ones you get at, like, Paperchase or John Lewis.

PS: Kate says the runaway designer cat is due to have kittens this week.

Turns out cats are only pregnant for nine weeks. Who knew?

9:04 P.M.

I just Googled animal pregnancies, and dogs are on average pregnant for only 8.5 weeks.

Tristan grew inside his mother for nine months. And yet I’ve seen a dog ride a bicycle. Just saying …

PS again: Polly hasn’t texted me, or called, or anything.

Today she posted a picture on Instagram of her and Tristan kissing, titled “So much love.”

I didn’t comment, because apparently when you haven’t got anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all.

Wednesday, March 28 #DonationOfTheCentury

Emma and I made the discovery of the century.

We pulled a Return of the Jedi movie poster out of a fungus-riddled Nike golf bag, and I was like: “Cool.”

Then we rolled it out on the big table to have a proper look, greatly inconveniencing Pat and her bric-a-brac in the process, and I saw that it’s got MARK HAMILL’s actual real-life signature on it.

People are selling things like that for hundreds and hundreds of pounds online.

I told Kate to set up an account straightaway, because we can’t have some retired person spending, like, £1.25 on something so totally brilliant.

Alex was like: “The Force is with us.”

When we were all standing around the table, I was next to James, who was like: “Wow, Phoebe, what a find. This is something special,” and then Kate pushed in, so she was literally on top of us, and I had no choice but to migrate to my left until I was practically sitting on Pat’s lap, who went: “Phoebe, mind yourself.”

Oh, and get this: As we were talking about Star Wars, I went to Emma: “You must be a fan. I mean, because you know, your Instagram picture.” But she was just like: “How much do you think we’ll be able to get for the poster?”

I said to Kate that we should probably compare similar items online. Imagine us getting something like £300 for it. That would be immense. An average book at the thrift shop costs £2, and an average top, maybe £3.50. We’d have to sell 150 books to make that money. Or 85.7 tops.

I’m totally psyched about our find.

Thursday, March 29 #HappyBirthday

7:15 A.M.

The runaway designer cat had her kittens underneath my wardrobe.

I honestly can’t believe it.

Kate even made a kitten box in the living room with blankets and everything, but it must have thought: Hmmmm, where in this house would be the most annoying place to have my kittens? Oh, I know, in Phoebe’s room, under her wardrobe, where people can’t get to me.

Kate was under there for, like, an hour.

She was like: “Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good mama? Look at your lovely babies.”

Apparently there are four.

I now have a designer cat and her illegitimate kittens living under my wardrobe.

I texted Emma about it, and she was all excited and asked when she can come and visit them.

I told her she’s going to have to crawl under the wardrobe if she wants to see them, but she was like: “Okay.” And when I told Kate, she was like: “Just ask Emma round for dinner. I can drop her home after.”

Now Emma’s coming straight after the thrift shop tomorrow, and we’re going to make pizza and salad.

9:00 P.M.

All we talked about at the thrift shop today were the kittens.

Suddenly everyone wants to come to our house, and I swear Kate was one millisecond from inviting James, too.

He went up in my estimation today, because he and Alex had a proper bonding session, with Alex explaining to him how to work the till, and when Alex had to go get his bus, James was all like: “Thanks for today, man. I