‘Guess how much this was,” I say to my partner mischievously, revealing with relish the latest toy I’ve found for our youngest son. It’s wooden, Montessori in style (apparently a ball dropping through a hole teaches him object permanence), and retails at about £20 new. “A quid,” my partner proffers, wearily: he is savvy to this game by now. This time, though, I can go one better. “Free!” I screech with glee. “Free! Can you believe that? Someone was giving it away on that secondhand WhatApp group.” I’m giddy with my find, drunk on the size of the bargain, but, as I add the new (to me) toy to the teetering pile of others – dolls, a tunnel, toy cars, a lunchbox – I can feel something – guilt, I think – gnawing away at me. Am I a secondhand overconsumer?
I’ve always been a champion of secondhand shopping. I was plundering charity shops before it was cool and, in a tale that has become family folklore, once found a standard lamp in a branch of the British Heart Foundation and carried it home on the bus. In fairness, that lamp has moved house with me seven times and still stands, resplendent, in my living room. But I fear too many of my other secondhand purchases have been flash-in-the-pan dopamine hits. These purchases gather dust in our bedroom, the study, my son’s toy box. Clothes I’ve bought from charity shops, heady with the exhilaration of them being “only £5”, lie crumpled and forgotten in the depths of my wardrobe before, months later, being dragged out and sold on Vinted for a couple of quid. And still I buy more, ensnared in the grip of what I’ve started to believe is something akin to an addiction.
