“It cost how much?” she shrieked.
"Yes, but it's the deluxe box set," I argued, "Five albums, a single, and signed tour poster."
"Original tour poster, is it?" she scowled.
Even she knew the tour was in the '90s. 9th October, 1992 at The Hummingbird, to be precise.
"No, but…" I muttered, feeling momentum slip away.
"No. And are there any songs on it you don't already own? Twice?" Her foot tapping, she knew she had me in knots.
"No. Well, demos, but that's hardly the point…"
"You're right," she said, "the point is you've spent another £120 on records. Oh, and a poster. Where do you think you're gonna hang that?"
I had a good idea, if only she'd keep still long enough for me to get the nails in.
"It can go in the office, can't it?" I said, snarkiness rising.
"If there's room! How old are you?" she asked, banging her Pimm's and lemonade (complete with curly straw) down onto the breakfast bar.
Now wasn't the time to mention she was three years my senior.
I deigned not to answer, and went to fetch drawing pins from the drawer, instead.
She stormed off into my mancave, which I'd surrendered (under duress) during the pandemic for use as our joint home office.
When I arrived there myself, a wicked smile greeted me. "I've made room," she said.
Immediately, I knew how. Yep. She'd torn my original 1992 'some friendly' flyer off the wall, scraggy, irregular triangular corners beneath the residual drawing pins, the only evidence it had hung there.
Now, the thing about vinyl records is: their edges are sharp. They can be lethal if swung just so.
So, how much did it cost? £120 and nine years of my liberty. Worth it, you ask? Every. Little. Bit.