I am so in love with crappy charity shops. Not the nice ones in rich areas with the rows of pretty, second-hand high street and designer clothes all neatly laid out in accordance to colour and size, with attractive helpful student staff and good lighting, no no no. You know the ones where everything’s a bit crispy and smells funny and you want to wash your hands after handling the goods? Usually full of weird broken toys and the grumpier, more senile members of the elderly community? THEMS the ones where you find the amazing stuff, like floor length polka dot gowns and cropped leather jackets adorned with semi-precious stones and/or 12 miles of shoulder pads, for less than the price of a sandwich. There’s an especially bad/amazing one between my flat and university, and no matter what I do I ALWAYS end up falling in there on my way home. It’s like a sickness. The lure of their £1 rail is just too strong.I lurched in there today, as per, and for the princely sum of £1.25 bought a midi-length black and white skirt and a glass tankard with a map of Scotland on it.
|in its new home, next to the ill-advised collection of ghetto gold earrings|
|my rug brilliantly adds to the general migraine effect|