Dear Diary, small adventures occur when one least expects them, and once in a blue moon we make a discovery that defies the law of generalities.
As I peered at my watch [I really must either buy, or pass a hint to anyone who will listen for a watch that has an easily read face], it became obvious I had time to spare. No shopping beckoned, the afternoon sunshine had gone into a snoot and hid behind fluffy white clouds; the wind whipped around the shopping precinct, and I did not feel inclined to stand at a bus station for ages, yet wasn't keen to move too far away. A small building beckoned, its older facade reminiscent of a bygone era. The windows were shining, and the door open inviting passers by to enter, while a sandwich board sign on the pavement announced the first week of a new Op Shop, the profits to be distributed among several local charities.
Dear Diary, an Opportunity Shop is an Aladdin's Cave! Many fascinating finds hide within. Treasures that belonged to another, often discarded when an elderly relative left this world and not wanted by family, find their way to Opportunity Shops. Thank goodness Niece isn't with me! She is particularly fussy; hints that goods for sale in this type of establishment are second hand, inferring in a haughty manner that second hand means second best. Only once did I persuade her to enter a Thrift Shop. She, hesitatingly, stood on the threshold, sniffing that particular aroma that sometimes inhabits these places that house pre-loved articles, and rather rudely I thought, announced in a carrying voice that the air stunk! This was a few years ago, and being less circumspect than now, I told her to grow up. Today, Dear Diary, I would phrase that a little more gracefully.
Never again did I bother to ask if she wanted to purchase goods from the Op Shop. When I did arrive home with a treasure in a plastic shopping bag, I made sure I washed and ironed it before wearing it. Invariably she ooohed and aaahed at the wonderful cut of a skirt, or the designer label I allowed to be prominently displayed. At the same time I maintained a diffident expression as I suggested the garment in question was an old one that I found in the back of the wardrobe. While she may have looked suspicious, there were never any direct accusations of fibbing.
This shop had a brightly painted interior, a warm beige with a hint of pink; the colour of the paint suggested that a few cans of left-over paints had been mixed in one large can. The overall effect was inviting. A highly polished wooden table acted as a counter. As I approached that table a lingering smell of lavender drifted towards my nostrils. It reminded me of my school-days when we had to polish our school desks with polish. Some children brought floor polish from home, while others used a lavender furniture polish. I begged my parents for a tin of lavender polish and weekly spread a small amount over the top of the desk, polishing it to a high sheen with an old pair of bloomers; the polish and bloomers I kept in a biscuit tin that held shortbread given as a Christmas gift years earlier.
While I was not particularly interested in clothing this time, I did need to fill in time, so wandered around, fingering jackets and woollen jerseys some that would no doubt be purchased for the wool, pulled down and crocheted into squares for a warm blanket.
In the corner stood a bookcase with a variety of books for sale. There is one thing, Dear Diary, that I dislike about bookshelves. To read the titles it is necessary to bend one's head sideways. A crick in the neck is the unpleasant result! As I was straightening up to move along a little further I happened to notice a copy of Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery. This book was one of my favourites as a child, and while I had watched the wonderful television series, I had lost my original copy of the book. I suspect it was loaned to a friend and not returned. I don't know Dear Diary, whether it is my age, or whether I tend to spend some time remembering the past, but I occasionally have the urge to re-read these childhood classics. Who could not be entranced by Anne's adventures?
I picked the book up and opened the flyleaf to refresh my mind of the story. Imagine my utmost surprise when I read the inscription on the facing page. It was my old book! Memories came flooding back as I recalled how it came into my possession ... it was a school prize, and while the ink was faded, my name was inscribed on the label. Dear Diary, of course I bought the book. As I still had a few minutes I related the saga to the lady on the desk ... she smiled and told me that many similar tales abound.
As I peered at my watch [I really must either buy, or pass a hint to anyone who will listen for a watch that has an easily read face], it became obvious I had time to spare. No shopping beckoned, the afternoon sunshine had gone into a snoot and hid behind fluffy white clouds; the wind whipped around the shopping precinct, and I did not feel inclined to stand at a bus station for ages, yet wasn't keen to move too far away. A small building beckoned, its older facade reminiscent of a bygone era. The windows were shining, and the door open inviting passers by to enter, while a sandwich board sign on the pavement announced the first week of a new Op Shop, the profits to be distributed among several local charities.
Dear Diary, an Opportunity Shop is an Aladdin's Cave! Many fascinating finds hide within. Treasures that belonged to another, often discarded when an elderly relative left this world and not wanted by family, find their way to Opportunity Shops. Thank goodness Niece isn't with me! She is particularly fussy; hints that goods for sale in this type of establishment are second hand, inferring in a haughty manner that second hand means second best. Only once did I persuade her to enter a Thrift Shop. She, hesitatingly, stood on the threshold, sniffing that particular aroma that sometimes inhabits these places that house pre-loved articles, and rather rudely I thought, announced in a carrying voice that the air stunk! This was a few years ago, and being less circumspect than now, I told her to grow up. Today, Dear Diary, I would phrase that a little more gracefully.
Never again did I bother to ask if she wanted to purchase goods from the Op Shop. When I did arrive home with a treasure in a plastic shopping bag, I made sure I washed and ironed it before wearing it. Invariably she ooohed and aaahed at the wonderful cut of a skirt, or the designer label I allowed to be prominently displayed. At the same time I maintained a diffident expression as I suggested the garment in question was an old one that I found in the back of the wardrobe. While she may have looked suspicious, there were never any direct accusations of fibbing.
This shop had a brightly painted interior, a warm beige with a hint of pink; the colour of the paint suggested that a few cans of left-over paints had been mixed in one large can. The overall effect was inviting. A highly polished wooden table acted as a counter. As I approached that table a lingering smell of lavender drifted towards my nostrils. It reminded me of my school-days when we had to polish our school desks with polish. Some children brought floor polish from home, while others used a lavender furniture polish. I begged my parents for a tin of lavender polish and weekly spread a small amount over the top of the desk, polishing it to a high sheen with an old pair of bloomers; the polish and bloomers I kept in a biscuit tin that held shortbread given as a Christmas gift years earlier.
While I was not particularly interested in clothing this time, I did need to fill in time, so wandered around, fingering jackets and woollen jerseys some that would no doubt be purchased for the wool, pulled down and crocheted into squares for a warm blanket.
In the corner stood a bookcase with a variety of books for sale. There is one thing, Dear Diary, that I dislike about bookshelves. To read the titles it is necessary to bend one's head sideways. A crick in the neck is the unpleasant result! As I was straightening up to move along a little further I happened to notice a copy of Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery. This book was one of my favourites as a child, and while I had watched the wonderful television series, I had lost my original copy of the book. I suspect it was loaned to a friend and not returned. I don't know Dear Diary, whether it is my age, or whether I tend to spend some time remembering the past, but I occasionally have the urge to re-read these childhood classics. Who could not be entranced by Anne's adventures?
I picked the book up and opened the flyleaf to refresh my mind of the story. Imagine my utmost surprise when I read the inscription on the facing page. It was my old book! Memories came flooding back as I recalled how it came into my possession ... it was a school prize, and while the ink was faded, my name was inscribed on the label. Dear Diary, of course I bought the book. As I still had a few minutes I related the saga to the lady on the desk ... she smiled and told me that many similar tales abound.
1 comment:
Similar thing happened to me only it was a box of books a relative had in their shed for years and had given me to sell at a local fundraiser. Right down near the bottom was a horse breaking book I'd lent to her about 20 years before, that she'd sworn she'd returned, with my name clearly written on the flyleaf!! It was one of a limited print and if it had been in the excellent condition in which she'd received it, these days I could sell it for over $500...not that I would :).
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