Opportunity for humour and delight
OUT OF MY HEAD ‘‘He would like to know, do you have any statues of pigs?’’
My sang froid shatters like glass. (I’ll sweep it up later.) ‘‘He what?’’ ‘‘Statues of pigs.’’ The speaker is a young Asian woman, a fellow opshop volunteer who is translating for two middleaged Asian customers in suits.
I have no idea what status our porcine pals hold in Eastern theism. Besides, it may have nothing to do with religion. These gents might just be collectors. People hoard elephant statuary, or horses or dogs, so why not pigs?
I came across a torch shaped like a dairy cow the other day. Sometimes you just have to surf the surreal.
Either way, we’re out of pigs. The men shrug and turn to forage for other bric amongst the brac.
I always think I’ll ditch this volunteering lark, but it throws up such delightful surprises.
An elderly couple came in recently looking for a single bed for guests. I hoed into the pile, heaving beds aside to reach a likely specimen.
Older style and heavy, but wellmade, clean and comfortable. ‘‘That’ll do,’’ they said. ‘‘Do you deliver?’’
‘‘Yes – for a charge. You might be able to get it into a hatchback.’’ I’m a great believer in these ’tardis’ vehicles.
‘‘We’ve got a Honda Jazz,’’ they said gingerly, eyeing the length of the bed.
The Jazz was a game-changer in rear-seat fold-down – it concertinas into the footwell – so this was worth a shot.
We shoehorned that bed in like a charm.
Almost. It stuck out the back a bit. The woman sensed her moment. ‘‘Is this where I take off my bra and attach it to the end for a flag?’’ she giggled.
Thankfully, as a ukulele superstar belting out Delilah onstage, I’ve perfected composure while underwear cascades around me. ‘‘Best to to leave it on,’’ I suggested. ‘‘Have you got a bit of rope to tie down the tailgate.’’ She produced one immediately, and I’m too much of a gentleman to inquire from whence.
As they drove away, I shouted myself a smile – and a prayer that I have such a cheeky sense of humour at their age.
The secret of happiness is no secret: volunteer. Do something for others. Service clubs, working bees, firefighters, Meals-OnWheelers … they’ve all got it sussed. Turn off your TV, get out there and enrich your life.
My colleagues are a great bunch. Customers range from the hard-up to wealthy bargainhunters, or office-workers filling in their lunch break. Because our stock changes constantly, it’s an addictive pastime.
A semi-regular was in recently hunting for a colourful duvet cover, to furnish her bach in the Sounds. She found the perfect one.
Classic Polite shack, she said. Knocked together by the previous owner, who loved it for 50 years. Now surrounded by mansions, but she and her husband like their humble hideaway just as it is.
My caravan parked seaside at Tukurua in Golden Bay weaves the same spell, I replied.
We are so lucky, she added, without a hint of smugness. You soak up the sunrise perched on a rock in your dressing gown with a cuppa in hand, and whether you return to a tent or a palace is immaterial. Amen to that.
I’m still glowing as I resume testing a donated clock. It doesn’t work. One for the skip.
Junk is a constant headache. If we see the best of human nature in here, we also see some of the worst – mean-spirited souls who use the shop as a free dumping ground for broken appliances, redundant video-recorders, useless modems and grubby couches no Scarfie would waste a match on.
And before you start stereotyping, the sly-dumpers hail from all levels of society.
Other opshops have it worse. Piles of tat in the doorway greet staff every Monday morning. They are reluctant to jeopardise community goodwill by complaining publicly, but even the most saintly of samaritans is driven to explode every now and then. We should not let it tarnish the wonderful gener- osity of most donors, or the raison d’etre of opshops – donated goods that benefit both giver and taker, with the profits funding worthy causes.
As a byproduct, we create troves begging to be explored.
Old radios seem to bewitch old men – and some of those sets have an excellent sound thanks to pretransistor valves.
Records draw in the vinyl freaks, all male. We had a large bird cage that sat for ages. I was locking up one day when a customer said, ‘‘Do you realise there’s a bird in it.’’
Blast – a nutter, and just when I’m trying to clear the shop. ‘‘Pardon?’’ ‘‘A bird.’’ With a sigh, I went down to check – and there was a freakin’ blackbird, ruffling its feathers in boredom. As all sorts of crazy explanations flooded my brain, I took the cage out to the roadside and coaxed the squatter free.
I recounted this tantalising mystery for days.
When I fronted up for my next shift, then-manager Sue explained that she’d found the stunned bird on the pavement after it had been clipped by a car.
She popped it into the cage to recuperate, and amidst a busy day, forgot to tell me.
In this place, compassion extends to all creatures great and small.