In this topsy-turvy world, there are two places that, without fail, manage to fill me with happiness. Every single time I enter them. Every. Single. Time. One is a good public library. The other is a good thrift shop. This week I have had a healthy dose of both, and am feeling positively plump with contentment as a result. In fact, I am positively bursting at my pre-loved seams with satisfaction!
Let’s take them one by one. We’ll start with the one that – in my opinion – wins (by a hair’s breadth). The public library. I’ve joined 3 since arriving in London, all in different boroughs depending on where we lived at the time. Each membership gave me access to a number of libraries in the region, and I did and still do borrow to my heart’s content. All I had to show was something – anything – with my name on it (I used my Australian driver’s license) – and I had a wealth of books and knowledge at my fingertips. No proof of address required. No waiting lists, no references, no interviews or appointments. And, best of all, ABSOLUTELY FREE! I love it. I love it so much. I love spending my Sunday morning wandering about the shelves… it’s a shopping experience like no other – I can choose anything at all, without wondering about how much it costs. If I like the look of it, it’s mine! I’m allowed to put it in my bag and take it home with me, no deposit or paperwork required, and I’m trusted to bring it back when I’m done with it so that someone else can have a turn. I love the people in my local library… people who, just like me, are perfectly happy pottering about, working their way through row after row of books. The library has something for all of us, regardless of our cultural background or our personal interests. I feel a kinship with those people, because although we’ve never met and may never speak to one another, although we all come from different places and live vastly different lives, we have the library in common. These quiet mornings or afternoons spent browsing, pottering, picking up, flicking through, putting back or tucking under one wing to carry home to devour, voraciously, under covers or on couches or buses or trains or wherever our lives take place. The intimacy of knowing the pages I’m turning have been well thumbed by unknown book-lovers before me, that we share that link, is fabulous. It means I have friends I’ve never met.
The other thing I love are thrift shops… charity shops... St Vinnies… call them what you will, a good three quarters of my wardrobe came from London second-hand clothing shops. Now I have to admit here that normally I don’t relish the prospect of clothes shopping… don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the odd spot of it here and there, under the right circumstances, but in general I can usually think of other things I’d prefer to spend my money on than new clothes. Also, I hate the way the smarmy shop-assistants pounce on me the moment I’m in the door with falsely up-beat greetings, asking me how I am when really I know they couldn’t care less. I ESPECIALLY hate it when there are no mirrors in the changing cubicle so you have to come out into the communal area to see yourself, at which point the shop-assistant can pounce again and let me know just how fabulous and cool I look in whatever crap, ill-fitting, tacky piece of fabric I happen to have talked myself into trying on. (Incidentally, I’m very much aware that much of what I have just written suggests that I am turning into my Dad. I have a theory about this… I believe it’s OK to turn into your parents in some aspects as long as you’re aware of it! It’s when you catch yourself mimicking your parents’ eccentricities unexpectedly that it’s time to worry). (No offence, Dad!).
Anyway, moving on. Thrift shops have none of that. They usually smell slightly dusty, and the person behind the counter is usually over 55 and willing to smile back if I smile at them, but otherwise perfectly happy to enter into a relationship of mutual ignoring until such times as I decide I need them. There is always a wall lined with a few shelves holding books with faded spines, and a collection of wonderfully random bric-a-brac. Tea cups and milk-jugs, records, ornaments, the occasional teddy bear. Odds and sodds of belts, hats and handbags. The shelves have mismatched hangers, and the clothes that hang on them are soft with wear and make me want to give them a big hug. As I browse through them I don’t have to worry about accidently slipping one off the hanger onto the ground, or snagging fabric with a ring. It’s nice, accessible, friendly shopping. Once again, it’s a curiously intimate experience to slip into an item of clothing that has been worn in by someone else, and to find that it fits perfectly. As I write this I’m wearing a purple silk pencil skirt that I suspect is home-made as it has no label and the inside fastening buttons don’t match. I like to wonder what experiences the person who wore this before me had, and what kind of person she was. Was it something she loved, and would put away tenderly after each wear? Or would she toss it into the corner of the room? If the person who owned it is now dead, as is quite likely with stuff bought at thrift shops, then what kind of memory did she leave behind to the people who knew her, and who would have seen her wearing what is now my purple silk skirt? I’ll never know, and that’s the beauty of it.
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| My swag... |
On Friday of last week I got a little bit carried away and blew £25 in a charity shop in West Hamstead. But I came home with 10 items of pre-loved clothing AND the satisfaction of knowing I was helping a cancer foundation, all without having to dodge pesky sales assistants. Bargain!
