Wednesday, June 28, 2006


I’ve finally starting sorting my stuff out - a mere three months after I moved. You know, there’s nothing more likely to incite a feeling of amazement than trawling through your belongings. I find this to be particularly true of one’s music collection. Unless you happen to be one of those freaky people that have organised their CD collection by artist, genre, chronology or artists haircut, there’s bound to be a few nasty surprises. The other day I started to tackle my own CD pile. I sat in slack jawed confusion as I tried to envisage any circumstance that could possibly have caused me to actually dish out my hard-earned cash for a Corrs album (ok, ok – two Corrs albums).

Or Britney Spears anyone? Nope? Didn’t think so. Mind you, having said all this, I appreciate that there will be people who will look at my most beloved CDs with the dog-eared sleeve notes and think I still need a serious taste transplant. My brother being one such person. Although, why anyone who paid good money to go to a Slayer concert has the right to comment I don’t know. Oh, how he loves to rip the piss right out of me for my (admitted) penchant for singer-songwriters of the female persuasion. I wonder if there’s a support group? Somewhere we can go and admit our guilty secret – “I own the entire Tori Amos back catalogue. Yes, even Strange Little Girls.” And then we break down and sob as everyone claps and says well done. Fiona Apple, Tori Amos, PJ Harvey, Martha Wainwright, Kate Bush and (even I hate to admit this) Alanis Morrisette. Although I draw the absolute line at Mariah Scarey. If you own even one single by that warbling diva I urge you to seek immediate professional help. Mind you, I have hung on to some, you might say questionable, CDs such as Justin Timberlake and Robbie Williams. And you know what? I’m not even slightly embarrassed. That ship sailed with the discovery of the long forgotten Atomic Kitten single.

PS - I am really crap at thinking up post titles. Will work on it.


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