hope; Faith; charity

0 Comments | Sunday Herald, The, Nov 28, 1999 | by Gordon Legge

Every second counts as Gordon Legge gets on his bike and heads for the thrift-stores of the Borders

EVER let it be said that I don't know how to show a lass a good time.

"How about it then?" I'll suggest to a new girlfriend. "Do 'the run', grabba bite to eat, catch the pictures then home."

"The run" is the charity shops. In Edinburgh, that means busy Bridges, posh Morningside or arty Stockbridge. In addition to being just plain fun, there's loads you can discover about a potential new partner from doing the charity shops: if she's got money; if she's willing to part with money; what books she's read; if she's into music; what she notices ("Oxfam's a bit steep, eh?"); if she's fit (it's hard work this); and, crucially, whether she suggests something for you - "Gordon, that's just you. You know, I think you should have that!" (Let's face it. Better than standing about like a Spangle in Miss Selfridge, anyway. Cue inevitable inquisition of the "Were you ogling that lassie?" variety.)"Every time I buy something new, I stick something into Cancer Research over the road. New top, old top goes over the road. Keeps everything tidy."

That's Marie. Favourite charity shop purchase: her boots.

Marie's not the only one. A few years ago Vogue editor Alexandra Shulman made a big thing of dropping off stuff at Oxfam. And why not? It's a social thing. Friendly staff, grateful staff, a hint of curiosity. Excellent social interactive potential. And, hopefully, you're doing some good. These days, even rubbish clothes can be of use. (Men generally, we wear stuff till it shreds. Though I think this is probably changing.) Oxfam has this Wastesaver thing, where, each week, over 80 tonnes of unsold textiles and shoes from shops and textile banks is recycled. Wastesaver brings in over #2 million a year in revenue. Oxfam itself, the UK's largest charity, has been known to raise close on #100 million a year. But more about figures later.

What I like about charity shops is: you're either looking for something (and it's there/not there), or something'll catch your eye (and you'll go "Wow!"). It's revolving door shopping - in, look round, then out again. You're not going to browse for hours, traipsing the streets, getting yourself into a state, and going, "Oh, I don't know. That one or that one. Decisions. Decisions."

There are, of course, those who baulk at the idea of "the run". There's the "I've worked hard to earn loads of money - I'm going to buy expensive stuff" posse. There's the traditional working-class reticence, that watch-and-no-take-your-eye-out mentality: "Oh, you never know what you could catch. Mean, wearing somebody else's shoes." Then there's the "They're smelly, and they're full of old people" brigade.

True, there are still some places that steadfastly retain that pungent essence of a million limp carrots, where the volume of contents outstrips the dimensions of space, and nobody seems to care. But step into a modern Shelter or Oxfam and you enter the retail equivalent of an an old fashioned general store, a Graham and Mortons for the Nineties. There's the best of gear, too. Designer clothes rub shoulders with books and music. Increasingly, the staff are young as well. (Funnily enough, just as an aside, the screenplay I'm supposed to be working on has as one of its principal locations a charity shop.) For me, the charity shop bug took hold when I used to travel on the supporters' bus to away games at football. When we reached our destination, my fellow fans, cliches one and all, would head off to soak themselves at the nearest pub. Me, I'd stride off in search of charity shops. I remember one time getting a copy of JG Ballard's The Wind From Nowhere. An incomprehensible book, I gave up after a few pages. Fast forward a few years and there's me talking to pretty boy writer Alan Warner, going on about Ballard, raving about High Rise and The Atrocity Exhibition. "Have you read The Wind From Nowhere?" says I. "No," says Warner, giving way to total intrigue. I told him I had, and what I thought of it. Warner was excited-excited. As he told it, there were hardly any copies going around. Ballard had withdrawn the book. "What?" I said. "Are you saying this is worth money then?" "Aye," says Warner; then a pause. "You still got your copy?" "Eh, no," I says. "When I moved to Edinburgh, I dumped all my rubbish books off at the the local Sue Ryder."

Big Al has barely spoken to me since.

"I came across this 1965 copy of Argosy. There was a Dylan Thomas short story in it. I thought, right, I'm having that. So I gets it home and flicks through, and there at the back's the crossword. And I looks at it, and it's like, my dad, my dad's filled in the crossword! It was his book."

That's Alan. Favourite charity shop purchase: his collection of eight Levi jackets.

Everybody's got their favourite charity shop purchase. Mine's a bootleg seven-inch by Bruce Springsteen. Credited to the Jersey Devil, it's a version of Fever, a song which has only recently seen an official release. I got it about 15 years ago. Cost me 20p. My friend Nig (hard g, rhymes with big - real name, eh, Nigel) raves about what he calls his 1936 gangster suit. "It's got the tailor's label inside, and the date - April, 1936. Does for weddings and funerals, you know. Eight quid it was."