Primark Killed The Charity Shop

Image from inspiredesignblog.co.uk

Let's put something out there straight away: I ain't no fashionista. Rifling about for floaty calf length skirts that channel thy inner vintage just isn't my thing.

I also hate fancy dress. It makes me feel awkward. At a push, and in a situation where everyone else in the whole entire world was dressing up and I wanted to fit in, I'd go for a full bear outfit for maximum coverage. No "is she? Isn't she?" ambiguity. It'd be "Yes, she is. And she is clearly a bear".

So what use do I have for a charity shop, if not to see 1970s potential in dated floral blouses or finding braces for Laurel and Hardy themed nights out?

To be honest, it's rarely clothing. Accessories tend to win it: functional belts that look a bit like the one I refused to pay £50 for in Urban Outfitters. Or cut price nearly-new books, especially in my local one where I'm pretty sure someone who works for a publisher just dumps all their freebies every week (Grace Dent's How to Leave Twitter and a hardback copy of one of my favourite books, A.A.Gill is Away in one haul this weekend. Score.)

I'd love to buy clothes from a charity shop, I really would. Because as much as I'm not a vintage lovin' fashion fiend, I do love a good bargain. With rent now a fixture in my banking calendar, and in need of a big Autumn-y cardigan, this weekend I took myself home and trawled the abundance of local second hand shops for just that. But sadly, I never did get one of the big cosy grandma cardigans I imagined would be in abundance.

Instead, I got a healthy dose of disdain.

Disdain for the sheer amount of average, worn-looking, generic gumpf from Primark lining the rails.

Not the nice dresses and catwalk cast-offs you see in the magazines, or adorning the backs of fashion conscious festival goers, either. The other stuff. The guilty stuff. You know, the bits you buy in bulk, purely because of the price.

Oh, it seems like such a bargain when you get home with 30 vest tops for a fiver, doesn't it? And when you've worn it, washed it and it now resembles more a tent than a top - well, you feel a bit bad shoving it in the bin. What a waste. Nah, let's put it in a black bag and give it to those in need; the grateful receivers of refuse they can't refuse - charity.

Looking at the rails, the tell-tale Atmosphere label was everywhere. I'm not sure what your non-UK equivalent would be, but here's a 101. Think cheap, miserable, sorry looking excuses for clothes which have travelled from third world slum to first world city, only to be slapped with a £1.50 price tag for the trouble. Disposable clothing worn once, replaced, and now donated in the hope that someone else might pay for it again.

Except they're not going to, are they? Would you? No. Because it's crap. And ironically, it'll probably be more expensive in the charity shop than it was to begin with.

Like this article says: "where something’s too cheap, someone, somewhere along the line is paying"

And despite what your conscience tells you, as long as Primark's in your donation bag,  it's not going to be the person rifling through the rails in a charity shop.

Restless

I'm all of a jitter. Proper restless.

It's not even that I'm jittery about going away, I'm just bored because for the first time ever I'm unemployed and not looking. I'm sitting at home, bumbling about, ploughing my way through boxes of chocolate and staring at a half packed backpack.

Look kids, I shit you not:

Shut up, my carpet's well nice.

Anyway, I ordered a load of stuff off Amazon on Monday - you know, travelly type stuff such as the ever attractive navy fold up kagool... hoping it would arrive by the end of the week. Note I just hoped this would happen, and didn't think to order anything by express delivery given that I leave on Monday morning. No, no. That would be far too intelligent. Happily, I've received precisely sweet F.A so far, so things are really looking positive on that front. A great time for me to put my trust in Royal Mail.

Oh, while we're on the subject, can we all put our hands together and spank the Post Office for royally cocking up my Post Office credit card application? In 25 years, I've never had anything go missing at the hands of Royal Mail. Yet the one time I give my Post Office credit card application documents (nothing too personal, just a bank statement, account numbers and payslip. You know, standard, identity theft-proof items) to a member of Monument Post Office staff to submit on my behalf, they miraculously disappear into thin air. What's that? March into the branch and kick off in front of everyone, you say? What a marvellous idea. Consider it done. No, really.

Now common sense denotes the use of some kind of internal post system or special / recorded delivery might be in place for dealing with such documents. Apparently not. After telling me this week that my application has expired, the nice Irish Post Office Credit Card Customer Service Representative then suggested that in future, it's safer to post these things myself.

That's right, in future, don't give your Post Office credit card application documents to a Post Office member of staff to send off. They will send it first class, not recorded, not internally, and it will get "lost in the post". Then they'll blame the strikes, despite the fact that they hadn't happened yet back then.

It will then be too late for you to reapply. And no other credit card will touch you because the application wasn't concluded. So everyone, come on. Everyone give the Post Office - and Royal Mail - a biiiig round of a applause.

Useless turnips.

Oh yes it's ladies night, oh what a night (oh what a night)

My dad's a Freemason. I'm not sure about what this actually means, except he goes to these meetings with other masons and they call each other worshipful brothers and stuff. It's like a secret society as far as I can gather, and at the moment my dad's pretty high up and in charge of something, so him and my mum (his laydee) get to throw a party this Saturday. Although the term 'ladies night' sounds a bit pimp, that's what it's called - it's just a black tie do at a hotel and the lodge members get to bring their wives and guests. There's 101 Dalmatians guests, dinner, dancing (woo), funny handshakes and a toast master. Ha. I love that: toast master. Master of the toast, word to yo mother. Or worshipful father. Hahaha. Anyway.

One of the main things you have to do if you're a mason is to believe in a 'supreme being'. But over the last few days in the run up to this Laydeez Night, I am convinced that when my dad took this oath, the Supreme Being on his mind was, in fact, my mother.

When I dropped him off at the shopping centre to meet her yesterday, there were a few small but important things he needed to get. Contact lens solution. Gift tags. Little stickers for the gift bags. He also had to get a present for my mum because it's their ladies night. Something nice to give her at the dinner.

When they returned 3 hours later, my dad was pale and wan. In his hands he clutched a jewellery shop bag and mum followed, beaming, while he appeared to have what I can only describe as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. When I asked if he was ok, his eyes widened and rolled a bit in his head.

"Did you get my contact lens solution?" I asked later on, once he'd calmed down and had a glass of wine in his hand.
"Oh no, sorry, I forgot."
"What about the gift tags?"
"Oh. No, I didn't get them either"

Today, he comes home from work and is milling about the kitchen.
"Oh damn, I forgot the stickers yesterday"
"Dad, what exactly did you buy? You went to the shops for 3 hours, you had a few small things to get, and you come back with nothing except a shell shocked expression. What the hell was in that jewellery bag?"
"Earrings."
"So? What sort of earrings? How much we talking here?"
"Diamonds."
And with that, he shuffled into the garden to mow the lawn for the 3rd time this week.

There are a lot of reasons why I admire my mother. But the ability to make a man spend so much money on a pair of earrings; so much that he manages to forget absolutely everything else he needs to remember and has to walk around in a bumbling daze for two days, is a trait I really hope I inherit.

Enjoy your weekend all.

Early start to the weekend

See, now this is why I love blogging. Every time I click publish on a post like yesterdays, where I'm usually in tears as I'm writing it, the comments are always just spot on. This morning as I sat in bed at a mates house, I retrieved the emails on my phone and read them all, thinking how they all just made so much sense. All the advise and 'that happened to me' stories have really sorted me out. Thank you!

Clearly, yesterday did not start out well. Between crying and sorting out the cat, who seems to be spiralling into a feline form of dementia, I realised I hadn't really been making the most of half term. Yet with London on my doorstep and an afternoon to kill, I couldn't think of one place I wanted to go. I felt almost agoraphobic about leaving the house but knew I had to get out for a few hours, so I shoved on a dress, some boots, and headed to Oxford Street.

Within half an hour I was worrying about how I was going to get from Bond Street station to Selfridges without killing someone, The Ex demoted to back of brain once again. Then, an amazing thing happened. I went to the French Connection concession and saw a dress I've been lusting after for a while but couldn't justify spending £75 on. I stared at the ticket price. £25? I checked with the sales assistant. The dress was indeed in my size, my ideal colour, and £25 - limited edition for Fashion Week. I grabbed it, headed to the changing rooms, tried it on and decided that for £25, I'd buy it and get it altered to fit. As I was standing at the till, the girl next to me was also buying it, but she had the size down. "Oh, thats a shame. I needed the 6 really. Never mind". She looked up and replied "Well, I wanted the 8. We can swap?" and just like that, I got my dress...and my smile back.

Then my Partner in Breakup / Make up / Break up again called, her and a friend were heading out to a few bars, did I want to come? Off home to get some heels on, then back into town again. Two bars and a taxi ride later and we're at the doors of Whisky Mist in Mayfair. Now usually, I'd avoid this kind of place like the plague. But last night, spurred on by my need to get out, do something I normally wouldn't and get out of the hole I was in, we wormed our way past the clipboards and into what can only be described as the strangest place I've been for a while. With no sign of any A-Listers (thank god), we danced, drank extortionately priced drinks, and got spun around by random men underneath the mirrored ceiling.

With no work the next day and no money to get even close to home, I hopped into a black cab and headed back to my Partner's house for a 3am bowl of Shreddies and burnt toast.

This morning, dressed in last night's clothes with unbrushed hair and bleary eyes, still drunk and giggling, we walked to the tube and I headed home to bed.

The moral of the story? When in doubt, go out. I think this is the first hangover which has ever actually perked me up.

Back to the grind

After I spent Monday exploring Westfield, London's newest, biggest, shiniest shopping centre, debating Miu Miu bag VS ski trip with my Partner in Breakup (who, it turned out, had actually been so ill after our excesses on Saturday night that she managed to convince her mum that it was the noro virus), it's safe to say being a Lady Wot Lunches was beginning to suit me down to the ground.

But as I returned home later that evening, finger hovering over 'send' on a text which read "Yep, tomorrow sounds great. Cuppa round yours at 1?", my mum dropped the bomb. The new admin assistant at her Little School of Horrors hadn't turned up, could I fill in until the end of the week? "Yeah alright. What time?" Ladies and gents, bombshell number two.

8.30am start.

START. Not get up, not leave the house, START.

And because it involves going out of London, that means a 7:30am lift off time.

Anyway - so I turned up, got shown around (it's a tiny place and houses the kids that no school will take; think two lots of security doors to get in and a sign that reads "hand in your belongings" with a picture of a packet of fags and a hoody tacked to the wall) and placed in my room in front of a computer.

Infinitely more lively than a regular office job working with teachers who wouldn't get through the day without a sense of humour and kids who probably don't leave home without an ASBO, it's actually alright. There's just one minor thing, one itsy bitsy teeny weeny little problemo.

It's my computer.

My INTERNET-FREE computer.

My computer which even SOLITAIRE is absent from.

Where am I? 1990?

And where are we in the bomb shell stakes...ah yes, that was number three, next is number four and my sneaky sneaky sneakster mother, who introduced me to everyone we met as "our new admin assistant!".

"Temporary..." I'd add, wondering why she's grinning. "Mum, you said it was just for the rest of this week"
"Well...until we find someone else"
"Are they actually looking for someone else? Because I'm not doing this for months on end. And I'll need part time hours to write."

We'll sort something out, apparently. TEMPORARY. I remind her. TEMPORARY. Why do I get the feeling that my definition is different from everyone elses?

Today will be a constructive day

I'm not even going to sneak a look at the Jeremy Kyle show...promise...not even if I'm eating my breakfast in front of the telly and it "happens" to come on.

Mental, I got up at like 8am today (partly because the cleaner was up and banging about and dropping things. The sign of a lazy cleaner who doesn't take things off the shelf before attempting to clean it, if you ask me) and have already been super constructive.

Decided to actually not waste the £400 I spent on a feature writing course in mid June and actually, err, write some features. I'm thinking of doing one on work experience, pros, cons etc, how to make the most of it, etc, snooze, yawn, burp. I'm about to go to the library and have a sift through a press guide to get some inspiration. See? Constructive, if not all that interesting.

I've also been paid! (joke, I transferred some money from my savings account so it's a little bit like pay day for the self-unemployed) and need to get some bits for holiday (you may have missed the twitter updates on the joy of finding a cheap hotel in Athens NOT located on a side street occupied by prostitutes - all suggestions welcome)...so will attempt to do this on le cheapo today.

On the other hand I got a real craving for shoes last night and the ones I was looking at don't really fit with the whole on le cheapo idea...but there is every chance they will cure the feeling of utter uselessness I currently have residing within my largely inactive brain.


Onwards. And I'm not even being un-constructive by blogging, it's better to blog in the morning with what I'm going to do today, rather than later with all the things I didn't do.



Ipso-Facto-Geronimooooo