Charity Shop. Pic by Cam Morin
As a family, we have developed a penchant for charity shopping, and each of us has a favourite section that we like to explore.
My young son heads for the toys and games on display in the children's area; my daughter enjoys rifling through the clothes; my husband is often keen to peruse the shoes; and I make a beeline for the books - many of the fine tomes gracing my shelves were booty from such stores at bargain prices.
As well as generating charitable profit, this book-buying method is also an elegant form of recycling, as I can sometimes be moved to re-donate the books - once I have read them and need to create space for future purchases.
When my daughters were preparing to exit their familial home and relocate to London, they expended many a happy hour at these second-hand paradises, sourcing various household items with which to furnish their prospective new abode - all without testing the limits of their modest budgets too severely.
They secured a stack of necessities, which included a vacuum cleaner, and indulged in other less-essential investments, such as a Sodastream - well, what is life without a few bubbles?
I am aware the debate rolls on as to whether these shops should only be patronised by people who have fewer choices of where to spend their precious assets, or whether everyone should utilise them and contribute to them in order to make them viable commodities.
I can see the validity of both sides of the argument, but, in the end, I am inclined to believe that anyone who donates to such premises should be entitled to shop therein; it's a satisfying cycle of commerce and, I hope, enables the establishments to stay in business and raise much-needed funds for their worthy recipients.
At any rate, a visit to such shops makes for a diverting occupation: they are often Aladdin's caves of wonders, their contents so disparate that old vinyl records featuring artists from bygone years can jostle for space alongside pairs of knitting needles, neatly bound and scrupulously sorted into sizes (NB these items may need to be requested in person, as leaving such potentially lethal implements within temptation's reach might prove too great a risk for the more ruthless or volatile shopper).
I rarely enjoy clothes shopping, and possess neither the patience nor the eye for discerning desirable garments from charity shops' diverse stock, but I do find their presentation of clothing visually entertaining; many stores segregate their displays according to size and type of item, but others choose to be led by palette, with rails divided into blocks of colour, a method that adds a certain panache to the overall effect.
Each system has its merit, particularly for those who appreciate how colours work for them, sartorially speaking. A friend of mine, who favours black outfits, must, I imagine, fully appreciate the rainbow system: half her work is already done.
In my family, none of us enjoys charitable shopping outlets more than my elder son, who relishes an afternoon's rummage through the low-priced treasures that can be discovered within their cavernous vaults. Like my daughter, he enjoys the challenge of scouring the racks of clothes, and has far more staying power than his feckless mother, frequently emerging from their linen embrace with items of superior quality at inferior prices.
He has also developed an excellent eye for an attractive item with which to furnish his bedroom: antique prints, gilded picture frames, elegant lamps, and picturesque candlesticks number among his myriad purchases. One recent visit to a slew of stores he hadn't frequented for some time saw him swagger forth in a stylish brown leather jacket in near-pristine condition, clutching a bright candelabra that turned out, on closer inspection, to be silver plated; we were all impressed by the lowly price tag.
Of course, not all trips are so triumphant. I was thrilled to spy, on a recent visit to a local store, the entire collection of a series of books by one of my favourite authors. I pounced upon the pile with glee, scooping up and purchasing the latest two publications, whose blurbs were unfamiliar to me, and bearing them home to join their fellows. Alas, I soon discovered that I already owned them both - I hadn't recognised them because they were as yet unread. Undeterred, I returned them to the shop the following day to request a swap for the first two books in the series, thinking that I could gift them to my best friend, who was sure to be as enamoured with them as I was.
Unfortunately, store policy didn't accommodate book exchanges - and, on reflection, I could understand why: there was every possibility that permitting such practice could see these establishments become little more than glorified libraries, where money rarely changed hands but books were constantly returned and exchanged.
The manager helpfully pointed out that I could donate the books, should I so wish - and it seemed churlish to refuse. Feeling rather noble as I handed them over, I decided to purchase the first two books, regardless - only to find that they had already flown off the shelves. Ho hum. Since then, I have lent my friend five of my books, as she has indeed become a fan. I rather suspect I may have become a glorified library myself; perhaps charity really does begin at home.
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