When people don’t understand the importance of numbered entry tickets

When people don’t understand the importance of numbered entry tickets and think you’re crazy

Be aware when you collect numbered entry tickets!

Every now and then you’ll meet people who think you’re crazy. 

In this ocassion those people were two men. And what we know mostly (I said mostly) about men of course is that they aren’t that much into crafting and journaling, but more in the heavy tools and screws field

So, I went to this flea market, which advertised basically as the Olympics (the sports centre was called Olympia Hall) of flea markets but was more a questionable small hall with fewer stands than mentioned.

I paid for my ticket, and there were these two guys at the entrance collecting the old-fashioned paper tickets. 

You know, the kind of tickets that scream, “Hold onto me! I’m important!” Which is exactly what I tried to do, but did not succeed.

The guy at the entry just chucks my ticket into this giant trash bin like it’s totally meaningless to him. I mean, he didn’t even hesitate. Just straight into the abyss. 

And I screamed, full-on drama mode: “NOOOOO! DON’T THROW IT AWAYYYY!!”

Cue the double-wide saucer eyes from both men. Like, “Is this lady okay? Should we call security?” 

I could hear their inner monologue. It was mostly just static and confusion.

But I am nothing if not persistent, so I clarified. “I WANT THEM. I NEED THEM.” And then I added, “The tickets. Like, the ones you just threw in the trash.”

No response. Just bigger eyes. Like, “Is this a test? Are we on What Would You Do? right now?”

So I explain: I make journals. ART journals. I glue stuff in them. Like old tickets. And then I smash paint and ugly art all over the page because that’s art.

This is the moment when the penny drops. You could see it in his face. He looked like he wanted to rewind the last 30 seconds of his life and just not be here right now. 

Except, plot twist: he wasn’t about to go digging through the trash because, apparently, the bin was now also home to half-eaten apples, fried potatoes, and pizza slices. 

But then something magical happened. He felt guilty. Or maybe he just wanted me to go away. 

Either way, he promised that while I wandered around the flea market, he’d collect every single ticket from other visitors. Like some sort of redemption arc.

And he did. Kind of.

I mean, it wasn’t as many tickets as I’d hoped because, one, this flea market wasn’t exactly a hotbed of activity, and two, it was still morning, which is prime only the diehards are awake time. But I still walked out with a small stack of tickets, which is all I really wanted.

I’m now debating whether to dedicate an entire page in my art journal to the trash bin as a symbol of chaos and perseverance.

But this stupid story shows why flea markets are the best for journaling addicts. Old fashioned entry tickets.