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

profundity.

Come on!

I sat under the till by Alex’s feet, eating crisps and doing more research into the Star Wars poster just in case we happen to hear back from Kate’s manager at some point in this life and get the go-ahead for putting it on eBay.

Seriously, I think some people don’t want to make money.

Alex was like: “You can’t sit under the till all day,” but I was just like: “Watch me.”

Just before lunch, three hours later, Kate was like: “Has anyone seen Phoebe?” and Alex was like: “Yes. And she thinks poetry’s shit.”

Me: Do you tell your parents I say words like shit all the time?

Alex: Why?

Me: Because you’re my only ally in this place, and I’d hate it if they told you to work somewhere else.

Alex: No, they’re cool.

I asked if Alex and Emma and I could go to Sprinkles for our lunch, and Kate said yes, but Emma said she didn’t want to come because, apparently, “We can’t all take lunch at the same time.”

Why didn’t she just say she wanted to spend time with James?

At Sprinkles I ordered the Peanut Butter and Jamsplosion, and Alex had Chocolate Extreme.

Me: Do you think James fancies Kate?

Alex: I haven’t really thought about it.

Me: Do you think James fancies Emma?

Alex: I haven’t really thought about it.

Me: Do you think Emma fancies James?

Alex: I haven’t really thought about that, either.

And then I realized that I’d thought about it way too much, which almost made me want to not finish my lunch.

PS: People need to calm down about poetry.

PPS:

Under the till.

Listening still.

But what’s most profound

Makes no sound.

Big deal.

Friday, April 6 #TheBettingBegins

We got the go-ahead for the Star Wars poster.

James suggested we should put it in a frame, and then he went out and got a cheapo one from Wilko’s, which made the poster look proper amazing.

We took a picture and then we uploaded it.

I suggested starting at £350, and at first Kate was like: “It’s a poster, Phoebe, not a Monet.” But then James reckoned that would be the right price, and suddenly everyone was like: Oh, okay, yes. Three hundred fifty pounds.

Not two minutes after it went live, ten people were already watching it, and an hour later, someone had offered £375. How amazing is that? So we’ll definitely get £375 for it, but it’s got, like, a whole other week to gather momentum.

We’ll make so much money.

Maybe it’ll be known as the movie poster that cured cancer.

Imagine.

Today Emma was like: “Are you okay, Phoebe?” and I was like: “Yes, thanks.” And then she went: “How are the kittens? Can we take the pictures yet?”

I honestly thought she’d forgotten about it, and I was so surprised that she brought it up that I was like: “Er, I think we need to wait awhile yet and allow for their personalities to come through a bit more.”

What am I even saying?

That’s such bullshit.

They’re cats.

I honestly don’t know why I say the things I say sometimes. It’s like they literally fall out of my mouth without having been through my brain.

Emma must think I’m completely ridiculous.

I need to ask her if she has a boyfriend. But she hasn’t asked me, and usually that’s, like, one of the first things people ask.

Maybe Emma just really isn’t like other people.

Saturday, April 7 #ThePlotThickens

So this is what I accidentally/on purpose overheard today:

Bill: And how are you, my darling?

Emma: Really well.

Bill: And Mum and Dad are all right, too?

Emma: Yes, thanks.

Bill: You still going to your meeting?

Emma: Yes, of course.

Bill: You wonderful woman.

When I walked back into the stockroom where they were, I felt like such an outsider.

What meetings? What’s going on with Emma? And why is he calling her “darling” and “wonderful”?

Is everyone trying to drive me insane?

11:19 P.M.

Maybe Emma’s an alcoholic.

Sunday, April 8 #ToLoseALeg

Kate reminded me that the other designer cat’s kittens are due later this week, so I may want to keep my door shut.

This is the full-on designer litter, so they really need to be born in their designer cardboard box (that Kate nicked from the neighbors’ recycling).

I WhatsApped Mum just now, and she told me about treating a little boy who had lost a leg.

I wonder what they do with cut-off body parts and dead bodies there. I can’t imagine them having a crematorium at a field hospital. I wonder if it all just gets burned out back.

I can’t imagine losing a leg.

And what’s that phrase all about?

How can you lose a leg?

You lose your wallet.

But your leg?

Monday, April 9 #MidSeasonSale

The Star Wars poster has reached a whopping £401.

How totally amazing is that? And we’ve got until Friday, and there’s, like, seventy-eight people still watching it.

It was a stroke of genius putting it on when people/people’s children are on holiday, because I bet everyone’s just sitting at home, bored, wondering what they can possibly spend money on next.

Emma and I are getting through donation bags with almost absurd speed now. Turns out we’re a brilliant team. With everything starting to clog up the rails in the stockroom, Kate spontaneously decided we should have a sale. We’re going to do buy one, get one half price on all clothes.

I spent all day putting signs up.

Pat thinks it’s a terrible idea (of course).

She reckons thrift shops should never give in to High Street pressures.

I disagree, not out of principle or because I hate her, but because it’s better to make three pounds than two: If ten people spend three pounds, we make thirty pounds, but if ten people spend two pounds, we only make twenty pounds.

It’s not rocket science, Pat.

Also, Emma and James are literally infuriating.

James: I used to row at school.

Emma: Oh, cool.

James: It was intense. There’s so much pressure. And one day in Sixth Form, I woke up, and I decided I didn’t want to do it anymore.

Emma: Oh, I know. Rowing takes over your life. And your weekends are busier than your week.

Why is she suddenly a rowing expert?

I also don’t understand why it’s