I cautiously swing open the dented door to what some people refer to as; the untapped ‘Aladdin's cave’ of shops... The charity shop:
The musty odour slams into me faster than the unstoppable bus which rampages through the streets of Los Angeles in the film:Speed.
The smell is simply eye-watering and almost indescribable- perhaps it has something to do with the flea bitten feline which glares at me from above- prowling the rickety (and worryingly unstable) wooden shelving.
Its’ cold yellow eyes seem to burn into my very soul... even the cat thinks that I don’t belong here.
With my instincts (and nose) imploring me to do otherwise; I take a shaky step further into the unknown...
There are others in this grubby shop, I can’t really tell; they seem to sense my presence but do not acknowledge me, as they scurry up and down the roughly marked aisles in desperate ‘animalistic’ like pursuit of their prey: the ever elusive ‘bargain’.
The woman to the right of me- I vaguely recognise. Her faded plum Macintosh glistens with- what I fear to be: bird droppings.
This must be Cheltenham’s very own: ‘Crazy bird lady.’
I have heard people speak of her before- the woman who spends her days feeding and stroking the flying rats which swoop maliciously about the town.
She appears to be muttering to herself as she viciously attacks the drab garments which cling limply to their rusty hangers.
The speed at which she hunts is quite alarming and the look of fear in her cloudy blue eyes seems to suggest that she feels threatened by the presence of the other shoppers- well either of the shoppers or of the cat- which has now turned its’ ugly squashed face in curious attention towards her.
Ignoring the fruitful specimen of shoppers, I begin my search for the intangible ‘bargain’- carefully stepping over the dusty and damaged ‘brick-a-brack’ which clutters the equally aged carpet.
I glance at the clothing which hangs in savage execution on the railing. I suspect these items were once loved but most have certainly seemed to have had surpassed their expected wear time... perhaps I’ll leave the clothes for today.
Onwards to the jewellery which gleams in silent protest from within the shabby glass encasement in the centre of the shop.
Most items have been tossed uncaringly onto the chipped clear shelving.
To call these pieces ‘retro’ or ‘vintage’ is an understatement as I imagine that most pieces have been in existence for a very long time- which wouldn’t normally be a bad thing but the quality of the items is strangely reminiscent of the type of items which I suspect to burst out of ‘value’ crackers during the festive period... I’ll leave buying new accessories for today.
I walk meekly to the back of the shop where the shop-owner appears to dwell.
The woman behind the counter grunts in acknowledgement as I cautiously peer into the row of ripped cardboard containers which sit on the surface of the table before her alongside a bag of fowl-smelling cat food and a dish of warm milk.
She does not seem pleased that I have made it this far and the unpleasant lines around her mouth suggests that she has spent a large proportion of her life scowling at her customers for disturbing her concentration whilst reading the damp 'trash' magazine which lies before her.
Undeterred and with bated breath I take a closer look at the contents of the largest box...
...That can’t be what I think it is! Oh God it is... it’s a woman’s bra no... an entire box!
Apparently you can recycle everything...
No... This really is the final straw- it’s simply not normal! Any shred of bravery and curiosity has seeped out of me... I will leave the charity shop for today.
I had never greeted fresh air with so much relief in my entire life and I can now truly understand how Andy Dufresne felt after his escape from Shawshank prison.
I learnt two things from this mentally challenging experience:
1) Apparently you can buy second hand brassieres- you really have to see the condition of theses stained support garments to understand the true horror of this disturbing detail.
2) The people who refer to the ‘charity shop’ as ‘Aladdin’s cave’ must be one of two things; either: mentally unfortunate, or as I suspect: liars, who take some kind of sick pleasure out of seeing pale people clawing their way back to high street normality.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not normally the type to take a sneery ‘middle-class’ view on things but there are some places which truly baffles the mind.
Do famous people like Fearne Cotton really shop in these places for their fashionable vintage outfits?
I have since learnt that apparently there are ‘special’ charity shops where ‘A-listers’ dump their clothes due to an inexplicable fear of wearing the same garment twice.
If this is true then I am wiling to give this particular variety of shop a second chance... however until the exact location of these shops are confirmed; I will just stick to giving to the charity shops.
