I live next door to a charity shop. The staff are absolutely insane and borderline scary, there is always a trumpet for sale and every so often they stock up on brightly chairs carved into zoo animal shapes. My favourite item for sale currently is a small wicker farm, complete with wicker farmer.
About a year ago I started frequenting the inside of this little shop with my little housemate. Since then one of my wardrobes has quite literally started to buckle, two drawers have broken and my boyfriend is unimpressed. It turns out owning clothes that someone might have died in (I mean, fairly unlikely I hope) and that come with a free layer of dust is addictive. It’s very addictive.
It also doesn’t help that we pretty much share a building and our flat recently did a little leaking into the shop storeroom. “Can you just come in and have a look and then tell your landlord?” Quick look at leak, quick purchase of three more XXL floral shirts probably once owned by 70s secretaries. We also regularly have to go in to retrieve post (once an ASOS parcel with a bite out of the box), or to like check if there is any post, and buy a bag with parrots on.
I was meant to be culling my mass collection of giant mens clothing, but then I got it all out and realised I’M KEEPING IT ALL. Then remembered this empty wordpress account. Then this happened:
(This is just the tip of the iceberg. My skirt collection is probably bigger than the army of some small European countries.)
One of my housemates recently woke up on a Saturday from a lucid dream about some bejewelled slippers displayed in the window that had been keeping us entertained. We do actually have lives, we’re just in way over our heads with this charity universe.