Let me tell you about my favourite London local. It’s a port in a storm, a glowing beacon of light on a bleak afternoon. It’s been the source of many happy memories, a place where everybody knows my name. Pub, you ask? Nope, it’s a charity shop.
I’ve been a charity shopper since childhood. Where other parents were squeamish about other people’s leftovers, mine relished a Saturday afternoon treasure hunt. I inherited their enthusiasm, first relying on charity shops to make my teen pocket money and student loans stretch further; combing them for retro polyester to make me stand out as an ‘individual’ in a sea of Jane Norman and Topshop. Later, I used them to offset the guilt of my fast fashion habit, then as a withdrawal drug when I eventually quit.
