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Charity Shop = Purgatory?
I can never go in, never. The reason is it is purgatory.
I’m in purgatory.
Ornaments, holiday souvenirs, books with torn jackets, mismatched china sets — all resting on pasting tables, their rickety legs thin, like newborn foals.
I’m trying to figure out what I’m doing in here, amongst the dust and the smell of mould. I’d come out for a walk, a breath of air and a break from the cloying stench of a marriage that was turning bad. Somehow, I found myself inside a charity shop.
Purgatory.
I picked up a hairbrush, turning it around in my hands. It was oval, with a silver-plated handle inlaid with mother of pearl.
Another design on a chair that reminded me of care homes — pink cabbage roses, the kind you see on antique upholstery. Furniture that has a weight seldom felt any more. A sense of solidity and permanence.
I can move furniture around my home without effort.
But the hairbrush had taken time and care to make. It was beautiful and yet ugly, almost grotesque.
As I looked closely, I saw that it was cracked. Several pieces of inlay were missing, leaving rusty holes in the handle. Fine white hairs were stuck in the bristles. They were the kind that could only…
