Well my trip to the Charity shops yesterday taught me that other peoples rubbish isn’t what it used to be. People don’t seem to give away the good stuff anymore, or if they do they don’t give it away in my size. The two items that caught my interest were in sizes 8 and 10. Since I am unlikely to attain either of those elusive sizes at least until I am decomposing, I was stuffed to say the least.

I remember years ago when I was even poorer than I am now (is that possible?) I used to grab some real doozies at the Charity Shop. I well remember the Beaver Lamb Coat I picked up for a fiver. Now before the animal rights people come around and throw paint over my head, let me explain.

I was really really poor, I needed a coat. It was a very warm coat. I worked with a girl who was a vegan at the time, (you could tell by her ears) and I thought she was going to expire with indignation. Is that an Animal? she screeched, steam pouring from her pointed lugholes. Calm down love I said backing away against the wall of the office with a chair in one hand and a bin in the other. I took it to the vet, there was nothing they could do, they said if I had gone 20 years earlier they might have had a chance. Here, take it to the kitchen and give it a nice saucer of milk. There’s a good girl. Years later she let me adopt one of her cats. But she always examined my hats and scarves very carefully, for purring (and fleas).

Another thing about shopping in posh town charity shops is that they are hard to recognise. I kid you not, the only difference between Cancer Research and the Edinburgh Woollen Mill in this place was the price.

As for Help the Aged, I think their whole take on the thing is just to employ them. Customers kept having to wake up the poor old thing on the till to pay. Is this Dior? I said holding up a gorgeous shift dress. No I think it’s quite cheap love she said and settled her head back onto her plate of biscuits. Oh never mind.

The Salvation army was interesting, I was no sooner through the door than a tambourine was thrust in my hand and I was half way through a chorus of onward christian soldiers before I realised the Charity shop was next door. They asked me if I would like to join, and I was tempted. I’ve always liked men in uniform. I don’t think that I could cope with all the singing though, and they didn’t have a gap in the band for a spoon player.

So I sloped off home despondent and empty handed, . It doesn’t help that I am a funny shape. Some women are pear shaped, and some are apple shaped, I am more of a potato myself (spud for short) I haven’t got a waist, more of a level crossing, test tube rather than hour glass, and I’ve got no bum. Well I did have one but I divorced him. Talking of whom. I bumped into him yesterday, he has got so FAT! I haven’t seen him for about a year, and holy crap he’s huge. I really wanted to walk around him (it would have taken a while) and exclaim at his blubber. Mind you, it cheered me up no end. I came home and hugged present Hubby, who for all his foibles is a sweetie.

You’re gorgeous I said hugging him. Oh my God he said looking worried, what have you bought?

Nothing I said smiling sweetly. Well apart from the T Shirt and cropped combat trousers I got from George at Asda on the way home, but I’m ageing them in the wardrobe for a few weeks before I bring them out. What these old things I shall say with surprise. I’ve had them ages.

The upside of not finding anything in the charity shops was of course that now I shall not have the embarassment of standing in the queue in Sainsburys while some old buffer remarks loudly. "Marjorie, didn't that used to be YOUR wetsuit".................