I’ve recently returned from the White Rose Shopping Centre (WRSC), in South Leeds, where I purchased a new printer upon which I intend to produce Word document copies of my daily narratives.
At the cost of £19.99, this a gracious offer from monsieur WH Smith and his splendid stationery emporium. Quite perversely, the purchase price less than that of forking out for new ink cartridges for my old hardware. GJ Strachan benefitting from the throw away society encouraged by our corporate masters.
Strachan keen to print off copies of his work to keep for posterity, allowing future generations of his family a chance to witness his wit, erudition, literary versatility and a taste of life in late 20th/early 21st century northern England.
These tens of Lever Arch folders, with thousands of pages of his essays, his cherished compositions which perhaps misguidedly he convinces himself will one day be recognised as works of literary importance…… If they don’t he melancholically concedes that at least his future kin will one day have plenty of fuel for a bonfire.
On buying the new printer hardware on informed my mother, my shopping companion while WRSC in situ, the purchases purpose she unsupportingly opined “What a waste of bleeding money. Think of all the environmental damage you’re causing with your vanity.”
Walking towards the car at this juncture, I was moved to defend my character by informing mater “How do you know printing paper copies of my work onto A4 will be a waste of time?!….. I’ll prove you wrong one day when my book goes global!”
“I wouldn’t hold your breathe for that to happen, Gary!” mother sneered discourteously.
“You don’t know what the future holds, mum…… I’ve written enough decent stuff over the years to one day monetise some of the effort of my labour” I continued to respond defensively.
“Well you reckon you’ve written over one million words on your website, and despite that volume of work you’ve not had a sniff of interest from a publisher. I’d manage your expectations with that in mind!” Mrs S senior argued with further cynicism and lack of enthusiasm about her offspring’s chances of fulfilling his aspirations.
“I will do one day, though, mum…. Even if, like Samuel Pepys’ journaling genius, it takes two hundred years after my death for my words to receive widespread critical acclaim.” yours truly countered, refusing to have my surety of eventual writing success dinted by these matriarchal slights.
“Well you’ll be long gone in two hundred years time so won’t even know of your newly acclaimed status as a latter day Samuel Pepys!” mater continued to sneer at my wherewithal with words.
“I don’t care!…… At least I’ll leave a worthwhile legacy to my descendants two centuries hence!” I argued, getting ever more frustrated at my forebears slights.
“Destroying half the trees in some Scandinavian forest to gratify your vain glorious need to own paper copies of your writing isn’t a worthwhile legacy, Gary!….. It’s selfish and if anything contributing to them potentially living in a worse global environment in 2222!” Mrs S disagreed firmly.
“You can talk, at least I don’t leave lights on and electrical appliances plugged in unnecessarily like you do!” GJ Strachan ranted like a itinerant child.
“Maybe not, but you do waste enough electricity powering that bloody printer to feed your self-indulgent vanity!…… Not to mention throwing away a perfectly good printer because it was cheaper to buy a new one than replacement inks!” Mrs S admonished, prior to asking “Oh by the way, you got any plans for Saturday evening?”
“Not that I can think of…. Why?” I responded, to the change of topic query.
“The weather forecast is good so I’ve invited a few people around for a bite to eat and a bonfire.”