Why charity begins in shops

When everything re-opened after the first lockdown, I didn’t immediately head to a restaurant, bar or hairdresser. I went to the Second Chance charity shop on Blackstock Road in north London. It wasn’t that I was feeling particularly charitable. If anything, my visit came from a place of selfishness. I wanted to rootle around, alone, and find something unexpected — and probably pointless — in the piles of bric-à-brac. Out I came with a milk jug (£2.50) and a book titled Cool Names for Babies (50p) written by two women called Pamela Redmond Satran and Linda Rosenkrantz. I instantly felt better, as though the past few months had been a bad dream.

I can’t be the only person who has missed this sort of experience. Anyone who loves charity shops will appreciate they offer a unique thrill. You might come out with a highly useful item you would have bought for far more elsewhere, or you could discover a totally useless trinket to be smuggled back home. The charitable aspect is by the by, really, although it does help to know that you’re supporting elderly veterans or down-at-heel donkeys when buying more clutter.

Britain is now a nation of charity shoppers. Our great achievement is to have turned scavenging into a benevolent activity. According to the Charities Aid Foundation, 88 per cent of us have bought something from one. They seem to be distinctly British (the first was founded in 1899 in Wolverhampton to help raise funds for the blind), although a few other Anglophone countries have them: in New Zealand and Australia, they are known as ‘op shops’. Americans call them ‘thrift shops’ but many make a profit, which isn’t really the point. The French prefer to do their second-hand shopping via stylish brocante fairs or a vide-grenier: the Gallic version of the car boot sale.