Poor old people.

So. The Great Wall of books that's been precariously balanced on our sideboard for approximately three months while friends take all the decent stuff out of it? (Don't get me wrong, we encouraged them to. We even gave them green bags and made recommendations.)

It's gone. I chucked a tantrum last night and renewed my efforts to rid our house of Crap We Don't Need.
Four 50L boxes and four green bags. I didn't count as I packed, but maybe 150 - 200 books? They filled the back of my jeepy little car, and off I set to enrich a charitable foundation.

Thwarted. Just five minutes away are two brotherhood bins, which I've donated stuff to before. They're on a main road and must be serviced often -there's not usually a load of excess stuff lying around them. I pull up, get out, start thinking about the logistics of 'posting' all these fricking books through the maws of doom, and become aware that some old guy has wandered over to tell me off.

Apparently the truck has just been and won't be back for a while, I shouldn't fill up this useful space with BOOKS and just where did all this stuff come from anyway?
The last said while peering intently through the back of my car. Actually, it was "Where did you get all this stuff, anyway?" like I must have stolen it, or was revenging myself upon a librarian ex-boyfriend. God forbid I should be capable of reading an actual book, or even worse, many.

"Ah... my HOUSE?!"
"What, ALL those books?"

Ok, I have a naughty side.
"Well, I've just found out I'm illiterate."

Said, I confess, in much the same way as "I have an inoperable brain tumor," or "My ability to think has just been wished away by a vengeful fairy godmother and I'm going to spend the rest of my life camped in Centrelink."

He wasn't very happy. I blame tv, for burdening impressionable old people with erroneous stereotypes of the young people of today. He probably thought I was serious.