Walking down our road I see a pile of interesting looking bits of electronic gear near to a bin. It’s an old turntable, with a wood veneer finish – possibly mid to late 70s. 1975 I’d say, at a push. It seems broken beyond compare, but maybe could be fixed up. In a reflex action I bend down to scoop up the record player then a voice in my head asks “Where, exactly, is this going to go?” and I stop myself. For many years I would find shelves at the side of the road and bring them home, sometimes as part of a meaningless and open ended DIY project. I have also brought a large amount of musical objects into the house, mostly stringed instruments but also organs and keyboards. We are running out of space, even in the ‘music’ room. Maybe I could start using the attic cupboards, except they are full of paintings, illustrations, masses of notebooks and folders, books, things, stuff.
I take a deep breath and stand up, walking slowly away from The Incredibly Beautiful Old Thing That Could Be Mine If Only I Loved It Enough To Take It Home. “It’s a broken piece of junk,” I tell myself. I know I’m lying. But I head back towards the house – in the direction safety.
I manage not to turn round.