“Oh Trolley, My Trolley”

 

For two years, I had a trolley in my living room that all of my friends wrote their name on. It has filled the role candle holder, linen cupboard, pot plant, liquor cabinet, and the that drawer that you keep miscellaneous take-out menus in.

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It is at this point that I would like to acknowledge I DID NOT STEAL THE TROLLEY. It found me on the footpath directly blocking my front gate, and I, given my irrational empathy for inanimate objects, brought it inside so it wouldn’t be lonely.

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I had planned to bring the trolley with me, wherever I may find myself living in the coming years. Amy told me this was absurd, and she was right. After a few weeks of practicing and preparing my sentimental arse in the art of letting go, Amy, Em, and I got trolleyed ourselves and returned the trolley to it’s rightful home after it’s two times around the sun adventure.

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We passed the trolley on to a girl with fair skin and red hair under the pretence that she bought some broccoli to go in it. She hesitantly agreed, and I think she understood. 

There are important signatures on that trolley, all involving a ridiculous nickname, and most involving some form of double-negative profanity. Coles has received something that has (I would humbly say) tripled in value, at the very least.

Thank you to all the friends who indulged me throughout our entire two years with the trolley, and my subsequent insistence on returning it with a bang. It was a fitting finale.

Bye, Trolley. It’s been fun. 

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