Why must I regard money as something to be gotten rid of as soon as it crosses my palm???
I know my finances are in dire straits and yet somehow, today, for no reason, I threw ten euros away on nothing, NOTHING. I thought I'd go into the interesting book shop across the road from me because they have an English section (yes, I know, but I've given up on learning French so fuck off) and last time I went in there I got Tess of the D'Urbervilles for thee euros. (It's now one of my favourite books, although I was a bit of a man-hater before and let's just say reading the book didn't exactly make me sashay into the world singing 'Stand By Your Man' by Tammy Wynette... although I will still listen to it on YouTube; you can't take your man-hating out on such an excellent song.)
Anyway... I've been thinking lately that this year I can at least try and become Well Read if I can't learn French, which I can't. So far I've read Tess of the D'Urbervilles, A Tale of Two Cities... and that's it. So I thought I would go in to the libraire (book shop, not library before you make the same and perfectly understandable mistake as me) and find something Classic and English and Brilliant I can read in between work instead of going on Facebook and writing shit on here whilst seeing how many brews and biscuits I can fit in to two hours. (Six brews, one pack of biscuits.)
They had a lot of English Classics but they only seemed to have multiple copies of the very few 'Classics' I had read. (You know what I mean when I say 'Classics', good books that are so old and wordy that you don't feel guilty for sitting on your arse reading when you have Important Things you could be doing instead.)
I don't know why or how but I found myself impulsively grabbing Sir Gawain and The Green Knight which isn't even a novel it's a medieval ballad. I took it to the counter and it was ten euros. For a ballad. Ten euros. For a ballad that I can't even understand because it's in Middle English AND it's written in a dialect from either 'Cheshire, Lancashire or Staffordshire'.
Why did I hand over the ten euros? Why didn't I run from that shop, clutching my money to my chest, straight home to my laptop where I could have Googled the story for free?
So now it looks like, instead of learning French, which is the main reason I moved to Paris (besides from meeting an Arabic/North African gangster who lives in a banlieue and gives me illegally-appropriated funds to get rid... How fucking perfect would that be?); I'll be translating a 14th Century ballad from gibberish (e.g: And fres ere hit falle myght to the fale erthe) into English, for no reason other than I paid ten euros I can't afford for the privilege.