The winter break is here. It's time to
count my earnings. Every week, rather than allow my chiselling compensation to
be swallowed up by the daily cash flow of my wallet (pills, thrills, hearing
aid batteries etc.), I drop the risible €22 in to my Manchester United 1977 FA
Cup Winner's souvenir mug. Every few months I take Mrs RT out for a meal
(because she never complains that I spend my Sundays being a human sponge for
choleric inadequates), or I indulge myself in the sort of stuff that people of
a certain age cannot resist: superfluous gadgets and old vinyl.
 |
| Receptacle for a mug's wages |
There's a second hand record shop I often
cycle past on my way to and from games, and inevitably I wonder why I'm not in
there perusing forgotten Meisterwerke instead
of pedalling off in to the wind and the rain to voluntarily face the wrath of
athletically backward men operating on a collectively shortened fuse. Last week,
though, in the comfort of knowing I won't be refereeing for at least another
six weeks, I delayed a long overdue office clear-out in favour of finally stepping
inside, the wages of abuse burning a hole in my jeans pocket.
