The person who stole a suitcase containing half of my
Edinburgh flyers from the stairwell of my digs gained a disappointing loot.
It was due to my never-ending Wednesday (which ended eventually)
that I’d left the case around the corner out of the way. I’d already carried
one caseload of flyers up three floors to my flat, and as weedy as it sounds, I
couldn’t manage a second one. Actually, it isn't weedy when you consider how
much I’d already carried that day by myself (FEEL SORRY FOR ME).
When I left for my first (no)show yesterday, the case was
still there, and it was my plan to take it upstairs when I got back; that’s
where I fell at the first hurdle, as in the sixty minutes I was sweating my
little Jagger-like bum off running my show, someone decided to claim it
for themselves.
I find this surprising on two counts, as (1) the case was a
cheap Wilkinson affair, and (2) it was heavier than dark matter. They must have
lifted it for a moment and thought, ‘Oooh, this must contain something valuable’
- equating weight to worth - then ‘I’m going to claim this for myself’.
I hope they carried it a long distance. I hope they live at
the top of Arthur’s Seat. I pray they required chiropractic treatment as a
result of hauling it around Edinburgh’s many peaks and troughs. I can only
image the look on their faces (plural?) when they opened it to find 3750 A6
pictures of me; my face has little
black-market value. In the meantime, I’m having to ration how many flyers I
give to my flyerers in case I run out, which isn’t really the
idea; I’ve stuck a note at the bottom of the stairs in hope of a suitcase
amnesty, as I could do with them back; the irony is, they're only valuable to me.