So, you've been living in the Himalayas and you've never heard of Kyle McDonald and his magical red paper clip.
It's a Jack and the Beanstalk tale really and feel-good enough to momentarily divert one's worrying over the imminent crisis in the Middle East, the overdue mortgage and whatever.
Our bold Kyle set out on a quest to trade one red paper clip for a house. Fourteen trades and one year later he landed himself a house in Kipling, Saskatchewan. He reached his target in July of this year at the height of the silly season and the story was soon viralling its way around the world media, as "and finally, in Kipling, Saskatchewan.." news fillers.
And in case you have just stumbled down the mountainside and removed your oxygen mask, welcome back! If you'd like a recap and to read more
about it, off you go.
Don't forget to hit the backspace when you've digested; I'm not finished with you yet!
Now, I'd bet my bottom dollar that at least half a million budding entrepreneurs who have read of Kyle's scheme are at this moment are thinking "I should do that!" and are glancing around the room for something to trade off.
That Suitcase.Since my late mother passed away several years ago I've been reluctant to open that battered, cobwebbed suitcase I'd inherited, discovered under her bed. It's moved with me several times, carrying it around like a hump but for some reason I just couldn't bring myself to open it.
Today, on a humid July Saturday, I ventured into the cobwebbed tool shed where I now stash all of that pointless stuff that magnetically clings to you as you move through life. And there it was, sitting amongst the rusty wrenches, the broken fishing rods and the rarely used strimmer, looking back at me reproachfully. It was time to crack the lock.
I'll spare you the teary-eyed details and get to the point.
Amongst the faded letters and post cards from long forgotten relatives and friends and the yellowed newspaper clippings whose significance was lost on me, I found one single and puzzling item; a ticket stub for a Clash gig.
Now I'm pretty sure the mother was not a fan of The Clash. The chances of her being a Joe Strummer freak was about as likely as me getting the late Mother Theresa knocked up. She was more your Victor Sylvester or Tommy Dorsey fan. The late mother, that is, not Mother Theresa.
It's dated Thursday, 12th October but no year. A quick calculation tells me that the year was likely to be 1976.
Rather than bin it, I thought, maybe I should find someone who'd like this little piece of memorabilia. But who?
After a cup of tea and a long think I could only come up with my old friend Dobs. As far as I recalled he was a bit of Clash Head in his time. But then I binned that idea with a pessimistic vision of Dobs removing the Panatella from his gob and going, "Yeah man, nice one," and leaving it at that. Anybody who has the pleasure of knowing Dobs will know exactly what I mean.
It was at this point, rummaging in the poignant dusty past while the contrasting summery sounds of children playing floated in through the window, that two strands of woolly thinking came together and tied themselves in a sort of 'Eureka!' knot.
I'll trade it up!
Who knows, I may end up with a two-story in Kipling, Saskatchewan.
But first I must tackle the mysteries of Ebay. Yes, it's a mystery to me. I'm an Ebay virgin.
I shall keep you posted,
