The Farm Manager has been on the nag for a couple of years about me clearing the shit out of the dressing room that I never wear. So the other day I got to it, just out of respect for the FM if nothing else.
I think the dressing room was originally considered the sixth bedroom in this hundred year old farmhouse. We don't actually get dressed there; it's just where we hang our clothes. While it's a bit cozy as a bedroom, it makes for a pretty generous walk-in closet, which, practically speaking, makes it a hoarders paradise.
I've got suits in there I haven't worn in thirty years. I've got a 35 year old pair of red and white Nike high-tops that are probably worth more than my truck. I've got a pair of blue suede Harts that must be worth more than the Nikes... or at least would be if anyone collected Harts.
Made right here in Canada. New Brunswick, if I'm not mistaken.
I lived in New Brunswick for a spell. It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times. But that's another story.
This story is about clearing out the walk-in closet.
I got a full garbage bag's worth of shirts I never wear. They'll be heading to the Sally Ann Boutique.
Then I got into the tweet jackets. I'm a sucker for tweed jackets. You can be kitted out in the most vile attire; sweat-stained tee, ripped jeans, filthy runners; but throw a tweed jacket over that mess and they let you in anywhere!
Alas, I've accumulated more tweed jackets than I have occasion to use. Three or four had to go. Before dropping them into the Sally Ann bag I rifled through the pockets. Lots of semi-used kleenex, a few pens and receipts and business cards from folks I'm never gonna do business with. A kippa, probably from a funeral, because that's the only time I wear one.
Then I reach into the inside breast pocket of the forth tweed jacket and pull out a bag of weed.
Holy shit!
Where did that come from?
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