The Art of ‘Chopping’ (Charity-Shopping rebranded)

Welcome to the museum of modern culture

On holiday this week so I’m recycling a whimsical proposal I wrote during lockdown for an abortive book about… Charity shops - my antidoter nomination of the week. 

Would you buy it?  Might this - seen through to fruition - be my legacy to this world? (God, I hope not. Especially as I might already have run out of content in the synopsis).   

Fact. People who say they don’t ‘do’ charity shops are snobs.  Not my kind of people.  

Sure, they have a tendency to smell a little of cadavers (the shops, not the critics), but I, and many like me, know Charity Shops to be one of the greatest pleasures in life and a habit for which a ‘rebranding’ exercise is long-overdue.  Instead of being scoffed at, ‘Chopping’ (my proposed verb) should be proactively encouraged due to the dopamine, exercise, altruism and mindfulness it induces… (all the buzzword-bingo in this age of purpose-seeking).   

As the bell above the Chop door tinkles on entry, those-in-the-know are suffused with potential and possibility (whilst our ears are simultaneously hit by Billy Joel on Magic FM).  We hover in the doorway, smile at the volunteer behind the counter and eagerly scan the musty-smelling room as we plot our route, deciphering instantly whether it’s a ‘by colour’ (wrong) or ‘by size’ (correct) arrangement.     

They say there’s a book in everyone. They say write about what you know or what you’re passionate about.  I assumed no-one would want to read a book about Charity Shops and my 20,000+ hours of mastery but various (ironic?) pub straw-polls disagreed. After all, in a sign of the economic-times, Charity Shops are more represented on British High Streets than just about any other shop-type, so there must be vast swathes of the population that share my passion for these mysterious troves of pre-loved crap.  

I’m a proud, exceptionally talented ‘Chopper’.  I propose to write this book not only as a love-letter to my favourite shop-type and a reassuring rallying call to my fellow ‘Choppers’ but also as a how-to guide for those looking to master the art of Chopping and as an advice-primer for Chop managers (note - you can do better).  

The experienced, enthusiastic Chopper is a person to envy. They are frugal yet intrepid; optimistic and spontaneous, yet patient. They typically dress well and originally. They have well-toned triceps from parting over-laden clothes-rails. Their houses are full of interesting curios (which they love telling you the origin of). They cumulatively fill the major charities’ coffers with many millions each year and embrace ‘recycling’ in its truest form… and yet they rarely indulge their habit with altruistic intent… that’s just a feel-good cherry on top.  They do it either out of cost-necessity or for the simple dopamine hit of finding a unique bargain/ 

For me, those couple of hours spent traipsing solo around the Chops in my small market town are more ‘mindful’ and cathartic than any meditation time or exercise class, (and tend to result in more tracked steps).  My husband calls it ‘pootling’ and will actively send me out to pootle Chops in the same way I tell him to go for a run, whenever I seem stressed.  I’ve always said that no matter how rich I might be fortunate-enough to become I will always chop.  It’s a true and genuine life pleasure. 

How so?  Well, I imagine objects’ past lives.  I reminisce nostalgically about similar items I once had or desired. I marvel at how anyone could ever have thought ‘that’ a flattering or desirable object.  I sympathise momentarily with the faded reality star whose autobiography now sits on the mark-down shelf; I rifle idly through a £1 bucket confused as to how anyone thought peach was an attractive colour for interior-design.  The history student in me recognises that every Chop is a museum to modern culture and the last twenty years or so of consumerism - what was ‘in’ and is now ‘out’, what was considered fashion and is now ‘faux pas’. It can be a serious history lesson sometimes when I’m there with my kids as they curiously turn the dial on a wired telephone or prod a cassette player. Above all, It’s unadulterated ‘me time’ to let my mind wander, to people-watch and just maybe, discover some treasure. 

All human life is here.  It never fails to fascinate me how far the ‘one man’s trash is another man’s treasure’ proverb plays out on this stage and the various characters you’ll meet-  of all ages and social-classes. There’s the gender-fluid, introverted teenager browsing oversized blouses; the smart professional woman able to sniff out a Phase 8 or Mint Velvet label from the other side of the shop; the old lady gingerly fingering the porcelain dancers; the harassed mum shoving a hastily grabbed Peppa toy into the pushchair as she fumbles through the loose summer dresses; the quiet old guy tilting his head and shoulders at the gardening books; and the husband standing on his own in the doorway, scrolling his phone.   

I make friends with twinkly-eyed volunteers and their special-needs assistants and share my glee at having found whatever they’re ringing up for me. I volunteer my own effusive opinions as the daughter emerges from the changing room to an impressed smile (and an improbable “we-could-take-it-in”) from her mother.  We chat about the weather, the cheesy song that’s floating in the air or the decline of the local street market.  It’s wholesome. Good natured. Calm. 

Be aware however.  Chops warp your eye and mistakes will be made.  This is primarily due to ridiculous prices temporarily blinding you to a product’s somewhat average reality, or maybe realising you have a near-identical equivalent, failing to notice stains, rips or missing buttons in your haste.  Occasionally, to my fury, it’s down to a mercilessly dishonest, ‘thinning’ mirror in a Chop changing room. 

But the ‘keepers’ more than make up for the wastage and there is that abiding defence that even if something proved a false economy, you’ve ‘given to charity’.   The keepers become your favourite items precisely because of how and where you found them.   

• My husband always talks about the ‘amazing little sixties mini-dress’ (£3.50) that took his breath away when we first met. It no longer fits, but hangs fondly at the end of my wardrobe.  One day, sweetheart, I’ll surprise you.  

• The beautiful, perfect new hat (£20) that my mother wore to my wedding - spotted in a Chop window after spending stressful weeks scouring expensive boutiques. In an act of karma after the wedding, she returned it to the same shop, it went back in the window and was sold for the exact same price she paid for it. 

• Two particular items: a gorgeous designer silk white shirt with blue hearts on (£4) and a military jacket (£3) are my go-to power outfits when I do public speaking (as worn in my ‘controversial’ TedX) 

• An original 70s Nina Simone 12 inch (£5) was the first record played on my beautiful golden portable record player

• A 10p copy of the 90s classic: ‘Chicken Soup for the Soul’ jumped out at me the day before the Corona-Virus lock-down and sustained me through week one.  

Many of my favourite clothes and objects in my home have come from chops and whenever I get complimented on them, I will smile, thank them and then gleefully screech ‘Charity Shop!’.  I’ve been told off for this in the past.  “Just take the compliment! It doesn’t matter!” 

But to me, there’s only pride in my chop ‘eye’, never shame. I wear it like a badge of honour.