#1 - trinket stealer
In a series of unfortunate events, I’ve decided to start a blog. Although we seem to be in the age of everyone having a Substack, I don’t write because I think anyone will care, I do it selfishly to get better at writing. But, if you are reading this, thank you for being here. I hope you have no expectations.
Ever since I was little I have always been writing things down, I have filled hundreds of journals with single words or short sentences which don’t make sense, mostly unfulfilled ideas. My brain finds it hard to organise, so my hypothesis is by fulfilling these ideas, I might find some kind of relief. And, in our current society built upon dreams dampened by the piss of Capitalism, why not add another voice into the void?
First: ‘What is a trinket stealer?’ and written underneath this I added ‘Is stealer even a word?’. The answer is yes, and when I set my Instagram username to this, I just thought it sounded good. Like impulsively getting a tattoo and then coming up with the meaning after, just to justify it to your judgemental family, which I have had to do many times before. So, I think of you, whoever you are, as my judgemental family, yet this is the explanation you didn’t ask for.
I think the first trinket I “stole” was my friend's necklace from her jewellery box when I was around 5 years old. The quotation marks are necessary because I returned it a week later. This wasn’t me seeking redemption, I just hated confrontation. Clammy hands and increased blood flow to my face are the symptoms I find uncontrollable when I’m lying or facing conflict, something I still have at 24, making it hard to get away with anything. But still, since then I have been collecting a variety of things, each holding fond memories, life lessons and importance: an angel Troll Christmas tree decoration, a mini pink water pistol, and a Miss Piggy ornament just to name a few.
Even though I may not be the traditional definition of a criminal, there was always something that fascinated me so greatly about collecting as much as I could. Like a fly to a UV light, I was always collecting “tat” as my parents called it, and as I have gotten older the habit has killed my ability to downsize. I now fight for surface space in my room as every inch seems to be filled with either porcelain ornaments, or broken snow globes. Perhaps it’s the comfort of having all my memories on display, perhaps as unconscious exposure therapy, until now.
There is a lady who lived next door to my Grandparents back in my hometown. When I was younger, I would go over sometimes to play and tell stories with her Granddaughter, and to get to her bedroom we would have to go up the stairs of her Grandma’s tightly proportioned semi-detached house. As you turned the corner from the kitchen, which always had this comforting smell like the inside of an oven, there the stairs presented themselves- each step, lined with E.T. plushies.
From the very bottom starting with a greeting of the iconic finger-in-the-air, to the next slightly larger and glaring, another holding a flower, and another with a hat. There must have been over twenty. Bundled and squished up, multiple ones together per step, as you walked up their eyes and wrinkled fingers following you. At the time, I had the most dramatic fear of E.T., the first time I saw the film it petrified me and took me years to be able to watch it again. So to childhood me, this staircase was a living nightmare.
When my Nanna died a few years ago, I took many of her trinkets back to London with me. I have a fairy ornament that used to sit next to her TV, a lamp which used to be by my Grandad’s bedside, a few picture frames, and some purple glassware. These are the things which mainly make up the little surface area of my room. However, it’s only in the past year I have been able to have these out of storage. Each time I’ve moved flats, I’ve unwrapped another thing which I thought would be too painful to look at. Just like every time I was confronted with E.T., I have grown to appreciate the things I feared.
