I like collective nouns. Who doesn’t, right? A flamboyance of flamingoes. A charm of goldfinches. A murder of crows. A wank of actors.
It occured to me that come my seventies I am going to be one of those women who have to be lifted by crane via the roof of my house because it is so full of junk and trinkets. Small children will come and point and laugh at me as I am hoisted into the air, still trying to grab hold of my wedgewood teapot shaped like a fucking pig or something. Teens will take pictures on their phones which – it being the future and all – will be instruments the size of a pinhead and capable of nuclear deployment. Some reporter will take a sleazy ‘upskirt’ shot as I dangle over his head, and the headline in the Sunday Sport the next day will be ‘LOOK AT THIS MINGE’.
I’ll have filled my utility room with stuffed animals and bad taxidermy and the firemen trying to get through it will have to use axes to break down the doors.
In short, MY LIFE WILL BE AWESOMER.
As such, the collective noun for charity shop items bought and stored is a HYPERBOLE OF JUNK. Here is some more. Look at it. Look at it. LOOK.
Who’s this sinister motherfucker? Those brown eyes say ‘puppy’, the face says ‘I will eat your soul while you sleep’.
Tactile, sexy Mug = 50penctons
Original erogenous Flask = £1.0000000
Oil Painting Erection = £2pounds
It’s a candle featuring the original and still the best Mary I can think of. (Sorry all other Marys. Maybe you’re doing something wrong? Have you considered immaculate conception and the bearing of the Son of God? Thought not. That’s why you’re not the greatest Mary. You need to up your Mary game don’t you? Lazy, aren’t you? LAZY)
Mexican candle for Drink and Drug Addiction (says so on back) £1!
Vintage fabric which I have made into a curtain in my kitchen to cover the hole beneath the worktop as it invokes lustful thoughts in the hearts and minds of decent men and also because I stuck my washing machine in there. £1ne poind.
Future me will be cryogenically frozen for the sole purpose of coming back in a thousand years when all travel has been reduced to sending a hologram of yourself on holiday and I will dig out this old suitcase and point to the label on it thus and bore on and on and on about how times have changed like a withered old windbag while my great, great, great grandchildren make wanker signs behind my back and ask people why I smell.
I read a list of ‘Thirty Things to Do Before You’re Thirty’ the other day and was disappointed to find that I had only ‘done’ two of them and one of them was turning thirty. Still, the day I take advice about what I should be doing from a magazine is the day I descend into a violent rage so, you know, autonomy.
I can reduce the list of things I am currently doing to a list of three key points:
(1) Buying stuff for cheapsies from charity shops.
(2) Staring out of the window
(3) Wearing socks.
Not even sure that number (3) counts as a thing. Still, here’s some stuff. Keep up, we’ve got a lot to cover. I’ve been lazy for a month or two.
This frame cost thrupence or at least it would have done if thrupence was Victorian talk for three pounds and not a weird word meaning either ‘three pence’ or a coy word for a lady’s sex parts.
L@@K @ this pretty vintage dress I got for a fiver. You can’t really tell from this picture which I have instragrammed the heck out of in order to hide the creases and bloating in my face but it’s lovely. You can probably see my nipples if you look at this picture hard enough. Stop zooming in you disgusting pervert. Let’s move on.
This table isn’t doing itself any favours by being so tricky to photograph. Fucking thing. This is the top of it which as you can see, presuming you have functioning ears and a brain, is painted with birds. It is rad. You’ll just have to take my word for it although seeing as you’re talking to a girl who once sold out her friends for ten B&H you’ll realise how little weight my word carries. Where was I? Table, six quid for cash.
Embroided linen from a charity shop in Devon. You can’t see from this but it was left unfinished by whomever was working on it. It made me sad to think that an old lady may have died before she had the chance to finish it, so I fully intended to finish it for her. Never did. Sorry, ghostly old lady who I have invented.
Curtains, curtains. Lovely big fat beautiful sixties curtains. The sort of thing your nan would have had if she had been a bit of a goer in the sixties, like mine.
Picture frame, three poundlies. This is above my bed because I like to be reminded of dead Mexican feminist artists whenever I am in bed doing bedly things like sleeping, dreaming and being super-sexy like ALL THE TIME.
This old postcard was twenty five pees and was addressed to someone called Ada. ‘Mother is well’ it begins which could be a code or something for a drugs deal or nineteen fifties street talk. We’ll never know (we know)
I like the sound of cowbells and many is the morning I get up, plait my hair and walk around the house dinging this dong and insisting everyone calls me Heidi. I’m still single, if anyone is interested.
I’m done here. Let’s do this again soon.
Dude the eighties called. They’ve taken out a restraining order against that rad suede and leather butter soft batwing cropped jacket with the shoulder pads you bought for £8 today in Help the Aged. That shit’s so fresh think you’re going to need a lawyer.
Here is a montage of this jacket, eighties style. <‘Turn It On’ by Kim Wilde plays>
I love this enamel teapot. It’s happy. It’s got a Tetris design going on, although I saw the face of Hitler in a scone earlier so I’m not the best judge of patterns and shit to be fair.
Happy pot, 99p. Oxfam.
“Nee-naw Nee-naw we’re the style police, and we’re arresting you on suspicion to WOW.”
You know what? I like this dress. It’s dinky and sweet and look-at-me-I’m-a-kinky-librarian but also the material is that heavy duty sixties stuff which feels like canvas or a brillo pad. Also the dress weighs forty pounds so I get tired in it just getting up the stairs. I’ve been sat here in it for nineteen hours. Send help, I can’t lift my arms. Still, £6.99, also Oxfam.
Sorry! What? Sorry! You what? This could go all on night. If you remember this version of the game ‘Sorry’ chances are you also remember rationing, Chuck Berry and homosexuality being a crime punishable by prison in the UK. The thing I love about this game is the unapologetic bluntness of the marketing. ‘Play It And Be Glad’ it demands.
Read the Important Notice from the Instructions. If you’re playing it for more than twenty five minutes YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG YOU CLUELESS PROLE! Don’t expect to enjoy the first four games very much, just get them over with. After that you will achieve near orgasmic levels of JOY and ENTHUSIASM. Read EVERYTHING SLOWLY and carefully in as many different TYPESETTINGS AS we CAN muster. Sorry! the game, just twenty pentagles.
CHARITY COPS. This is my new idea for a light entertainment show. It’s Bargain Hunt meets the Bill. It’s a Westcountry Lethal Weapon. It’s me ‘raiding’ charity shops in uniform, all day, all the time, for your viewing pleasure.
Charity Cops. Tagline – ‘You Cleared It Out, Now She Takes It Back’
Seriously Channel Five, this offer won’t be around forever. Already Sky are sniffing round my back door, and you’ll have to finish that joke off for yourself, I don’t have the time.
I’m showing you collars, I’m showing you shoulder pads, I’m giving you LOUD PATTERNS – I’m showing you a fresh Joan Collins look which says ‘I don’t have time for this shit, I got the pool boy to fuck.’
Except it only cost £1.50.
Saddle up pardners and witness the fake furmageddon. Cost me a ten piece, fits like a glove. If any protesters try to throw paint at it I will simply show them the inner label which reads 100%Acrylic, 100%Flammable and laugh in their FACES.
Green as an rolling Irish field, soft as the downy hair of a newborn, tighter than these clichés it’s a top for £2 and it’s bloody lovely it is.
We Are Robots. We Cost A Pound. A Pound? For A Kraftwerk T-Shirt Made From 100% Awesome? Yes, A Pound. That Does Not Compute. THAT DOES NOT COMPUTE.
I’m not really about what my ‘look’ is. I’m not really about what my look is telling you, other than it is usually telling you that I am broke, on the verge of a breakdown and possibly colourblind. I’m also not a ‘girly’ girl – I don’t have magnets on my fridge saying things like ‘I ORGASM Shopping and Shoes!!’ and ‘If only men’s cocks were made of CHOCOLATE LOL!!!’
This will all become obvious when you witness my new finds on Thrift Street.
“BLACK VELVET and that little boy smile!” honked Alannah Myles, or ‘Alan’ as I imagine I would call her if we were to meet. And if we were to meet I can wear this little vintage Badge of Sophistication, the black velvet pencil skirt. Velvet is sophisticated? I hear you ask. You’re damn right. Like shoulder pads and pineapple.
This is a look which says ‘Tell me baby, do you recognise me? Well, it’s been a year, it doesn’t surprise me.’ All looks should ‘say’ a song by Wham if they’re going to say anything at this time of year. Wham or Kate Bush. Red satin genie-sleeved cropped jacket from Oxfam. HOT.
Bottle green belted corduroy skirt from the former Marks and Spencers, St Michael. Cost me 50pence, makes me look at least twice that in small change.
Mittens mittens mittens. I was a leather gloves girl until I saw these two pound handmade little darlings just waiting to warm up my handlingtons, as I call the hanks of meat on the end of my fleshsticks.
It’s a metallic blue backless swimsuit with the words ‘Hollywood Starlet’ written all over it. It cost me one pound fifty. It’s a look I’m trying to get off the ground called Swimbody. ‘Swimbody Stop Me!’ I shout as I arrive in my swimsuit, ‘Do you need Swimbody to love?’ I holler, ‘Could I be Swimbody?’ before I’m forcibly ejected from the shopping centre.
Oh man. The charity shops near me have got a HALF PRICE SALE ON. Do you know what this means? Of course you do you gubbins, it means I am buying up the place for about a tenner and parading around the house in my new garbs ROARING with pleasure. Do you want to see some of them? You do? Of course you do, you maniacs.
Look! At these bad boys. Tiny little porcelain brooches, as fragile as a bone china haiku. The most expensive of the lot was £2.50 because the woman in the charity shop knocked a pound off and I let her because I am a tightwad.
Stare! In amazement as you bear witness to this little deer figurine with no purpose nor value WHATSOEVER. It was too pretty, and for fifty of your finest pences it was too much of a bargin to leave on the shelf. “Come with me, my pretty,” I gurgled happily.
Eyes Right! To this skirt for me. A few of the dudes reading this will be shrugging and thinking ‘I wish she’d talk about her tits again. Where are the tits?” and I say to you…KEEP READING. This is a Vintage St Michael (prev. M&S) petrol blue full length corduroy skirt with pockets. It makes me look both shorter and fatter than I actually am but frankly it is such a hot piece at such a bargain price that I wouldn’t care if it made my vagina look like the Wookey Hole caves.