I'm sure the intentions are very kind but who on earth wants a lot of tobacco stained books?
I don't understand this conversation at all.
Jack Monroe #186 The bromelain in canned pineapple is denatured
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I don't understand this conversation at all.
I had to give away a beautiful art book I'd picked up at a car boot because the stench of old tobacco just ruined it every time it was opened.
If they're not nice enough to donate, stick them on one of the free pages. You don't get much for secondhand books in perfect condition anyway, never mind mouldy old baccy smelling ones
Why not just recycle them, if she doesn't want them and I doubt others will it's the better option.
Why would prisoners want tobacco stained books, I know they have done crimes and all but jeez I think a brand-new book isnt asking for much?! I am all for prisoners doing hard time but we don't live in Victorian times.
Why would prisoners want tobacco stained books, I know they have done crimes and all but jeez I think a brand-new book isnt asking for much?! I am all for prisoners doing hard time but we don't live in Victorian times.
It's the book equivalent of feeding them slop. No nice things for those nasty poors, they'll get what they're given and be grateful. Horrible attitude.
Surely there's a fire hazard Mackie could upcycle the books into?
Surely there's a fire hazard Mackie could upcycle the books into?
Glad Jack has stuck to the “staying off twitter” pledge!
OT but I hate the way people convince themselves that something they have invested in has any value to others once they’ve finished with it and it’s in disrepair. I realise this is a very specific grump but having done aid work dealing with textiles which might not even be suitable for recycling (holes, wet/damp, covered in pet hair) I really want people to swap “what do I have that I no longer need and can donate” to “what do people who have nothing walking across Europe seeking asylum need” honestly people are the same everywhere, they want to dress half decent! Best stuff we had was about a whole school year of slightly used uniforms. Kids dark trousers and sweaters, plain, lots of sizes. Didn’t need the full “grannies wardrobe” of a line skirts, thin blouses.
It reminds me of a programme I watched with Mary Portas when she was doing up charity shops. She visited one and looked through a bag of donations which consisted of obviously worn unwashed pants.
Now tobacco stained books aren't quite the same I know. But disadvantaged people don't always want to be used as a dumping ground for tat nobody else wants.
Now tobacco stained books aren't quite the same I know. But disadvantaged people don't always want to be used as a dumping ground for tat nobody else wants.
The donations chat has given me flashbacks to working in an Oxfam clothing shop as a student. The number of men who would donate shirts with the armpits completely rotted and stained from deodorant was staggering. WTF would want that? Also used socks and underwear, all of which went straight in the bin.
Big shout out to the woman who donated a bin bag full of sex toys, that was quite a day.
Big shout out to the woman who donated a bin bag full of sex toys, that was quite a day.
Late night jackseeker activity afoot:
This is an old article, people may have already seen it. Can't link it for some reason so have copied
'11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless.'
This is an old article, people may have already seen it. Can't link it for some reason so have copied
'11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless.'
Saw this and thought of Jack and her unending saga of CT scans:
www.spectator.co.uk
At least she’s munching on her own (or a generous benefactor’s) dollar this time.
Hospital wards are filling up again – with fakers
How do I know that Britain’s Covid crisis is over? The fakers are back. The hypochondriacs, the psychosomatics, the pseudo-fitters, the attention-seekers and the lonely. They’ve started to return to the acute medical ward where I work. They’ve been gone so long I actually almost missed them...
www.spectator.co.uk
At least she’s munching on her own (or a generous benefactor’s) dollar this time.
Christ she means synonymous surely. Eponymous is a Greek word as well.
The thing that's always bothered me about that, is the leaving of her walking stick. Everyone I've known who required such things has taken it with them.
I feel in my strange little heart that it was Woman’s Hour.What job was she going to?
And her 'strange little heart'
‘Hot and saline and sticky and sweet’. No comment.
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That page can't be found, has it been taken down since you wrote your post?
Someone tried to donate a vibrator to a charity shop near me once. I found out the hard way - was coming home drunk with my mate and spotted donations spilling out onto the road. Naturally we took a closer look, and I found aforementioned sex toy lying there in its packaging. Grabbed ahold of the plastic for a laugh (god knows why) and it fell open - it had clearly been well used.... Needless to say I decided to wash my hands very thoroughly that night...
Like twit, the writer uses words that he really doesn't understand. He'd be better off talking about strict triage rather than military. Military triage means that you patch up the walking wounded first and get them back to battle; the ones that are likely to die anyway are left until the end. It's the opposite way round to normal triage. We were talking about Rick Jolly earlier in the thread: at Ajax Bay, a young army officer called Robert Lawrence was brought in with half his brain blown away. He was left outside to quietly die. When every other casualty had been dealt with, they were surprised to find him still alive so went ahead with operating on him. He survived. From Wiki: Lawrence lost 43% of his brain and was paralysed down one side of his body. He was awarded the Military Cross on 11 October 1982. He was discharged from the army on 14 November 1983. He spent a year in a wheelchair and doctors predicted he would never walk again. He eventually regained most movement although with a slight limp, a paralysed left arm, involuntary muscle contractions and posttraumatic stress disorder.Saw this and thought of Jack and her unending saga of CT scans:
Hospital wards are filling up again – with fakers
How do I know that Britain’s Covid crisis is over? The fakers are back. The hypochondriacs, the psychosomatics, the pseudo-fitters, the attention-seekers and the lonely. They’ve started to return to the acute medical ward where I work. They’ve been gone so long I actually almost missed them...
At least she’s munching on her own (or a generous benefactor’s) dollar this time.
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“I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love.“
Jack: you mean “synonymous”, not “eponymous”, you ignoramus. If you’re going to use fancy words, like a bargain basement Nigella, at least try to understand what those words ACTUALLY MEAN.
Military round the edges triage?
I have my coat, will shut the door behind me.
You leave Kandinsky alone Jack. Vlad will not be happy!
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