{"id":366,"date":"2013-04-02T04:10:25","date_gmt":"2013-04-02T04:10:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/?p=366"},"modified":"2022-03-28T12:53:41","modified_gmt":"2022-03-28T01:53:41","slug":"when-magazine-holders-die","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/when-magazine-holders-die\/","title":{"rendered":"When magazine holders die"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Abandoned<\/a><\/p>\n

Brian stared glumly out across the field of stalls and table tops. Rows of white vans were lined up behind trestle tables as far as the eye could see, their rear doors flung open as more and more objects were being disgorged from inside. A throng of anoraks and beanies shuffled between the tables, moving slowly like a defeated army. The stall holders warmed their hands on thermos cups or sat rigidly on camping chairs, cocooned in blankets, as if lying in wait for unsuspecting prey. Either that or they were frozen solid.<\/p>\n

Brian had never seen so much stuff<\/i>. After ten minutes of browsing, his mind was overloaded, refusing acknowledge anything in particular. It was all just one mass of crockery and jewellery, knick-knacks and ornaments. He knew he was supposed to be looking for something of value, a hidden gem, but really, where was one supposed to begin? It was as if he had lapsed back into a pre-linguistic phase, unable to differentiate between objects. His thoughts locked into a revolving mantra \u2013 look at this, look at this \u2013 broken at intervals by a despairing, puzzled query: who on earth was going to buy this<\/i>?<\/p>\n

In desperation, he latched on to a teacup, turning it delicately with his fingertips in the way he\u2019d observed the so-called expert do, peering at its base in search of a sign, any sign, that might tell him that this was anything more than what he feared it was: a cup.<\/p>\n

Made in China. Brian replaced the cup on the table with a sigh. Another drip of disappointment plopped into his puddle of gloom.<\/p>\n

It was his own stupid fault, he knew, for agreeing to come on this progam in the first place, but his mother was keen, excited even, and, at the time, it had seemed like a bit of harmless fun.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re going to be on the telly,\u201d she told him breathlessly on the telephone. \u201cWhat fun!\u201d<\/p>\n

It didn\u2019t seem like fun now. Brian shuffled morosely after his mother who, in turn, was being guided by the so-called expert whose job it was to navigate them through the warren of stalls and advise them on possible purchases. They were the blue team and, today, their challenge was to purchase three items which, at a later date, might possibly fetch more at auction than the items bought by their opponents, the red team.<\/p>\n

On any other day, Brian might have enjoyed the excursion with his mother, browsing through the market, idly looking on with benign interest as she rediscovered objects from his childhood. \u201cDo you remember this, Brian? We used to have one just<\/i> like it\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

There was no time for reminiscing now though. Already the blue team had used up half its allotted buying time with nothing to show for its efforts. Brian could feel the pressure of expectations start to build. Every time he paused near a stall in the hope of finding a suitable object, the accompanying camera crew nosed in a little closer, the sound boom hovering over his head. This is what it must be like to be a celebrity, thought Brian, except that celebrities aren\u2019t forced to wear oversized blue fleece jackets.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything catch your eye, Brian?\u201d The so-called expert who, up until that point, had devoted most of his attention to Brian\u2019s mother, was trying to jolly him along. Brian sensed though that even the so-called expert knew he was a lost cause.<\/p>\n

Brian turned desperately towards the nearest stall where the first thing he saw was a row of black box-like objects lined up like portaloos. They looked as if they might have been used once upon a time for storing something but what that might be Brian had no idea.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about these things? What are they for?\u201d he asked, pointing towards the black objects.<\/p>\n

\u201cThese,\u201d said the so-called expert, pleased to be able to demonstrate his superior knowledge, \u201c are magazine holders.\u201d<\/p>\n

Magazine<\/i> holders. \u201cOh yes,\u201d said Brian brightly, not having the slightest notion what the so-called expert was talking about.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d continued the so-called expert, directing his remarks towards the camera rather than Brian. \u201cBack in the days when people used to buy magazines printed on paper, they would store them in these containers standing upright, like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

The so-called expert held his hand vertically inside the container to demonstrate how a magazine might be stored inside its holder.<\/p>\n

\u201cWorth anything?\u201d asked Brian hopefully.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot really.\u201d The so-called expert eyed the magazine holders suspiciously. \u201cI mean, I\u2019m not sure what you would use them for<\/i> these days. I suppose you could always put<\/i> things in them but, you know\u2026. Nobody buys printed magazines any more\u2026 Ah, now this looks more promising\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

The so-called expert turned back to Brian\u2019s mother who was holding up a salad spinner. Instantly the camera crew swung towards her. Brian stared ruefully at the magazine holders, once so useful but now utterly redundant. Unwanted and unloved.<\/p>\n

It was going to be a long day.<\/p>\n

\"More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Brian stared glumly out across the field of stalls and table tops. Rows of white vans were lined up behind trestle tables as far as the eye could see, their rear doors flung open as more and more objects were being disgorged from inside. A throng of anoraks and beanies shuffled between the tables, moving […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":367,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"two_page_speed":[],"footnotes":""},"categories":[5,46],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-366","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","6":"hentry","7":"category-down-in-the-dumps","8":"category-conveyor-belt","10":"post-with-thumbnail","11":"post-with-thumbnail-icon"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/366","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=366"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/366\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5900,"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/366\/revisions\/5900"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/367"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=366"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=366"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/deadreal.com.au\/dead_things\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=366"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}