The other day I woke up to the sound of rain pounding down on my window. I opened the curtains and examined the sky in the hope that a speck of blue might instil some hope in my outlook for the day. That was when I saw a lonely white wooden chest of drawers which had been abandoned outside the Adrian Robbins furniture shop in Guildford Road. I quickly enlisted a Helpful Man to drag the heavy drawers into my bedroom. However, as soon as it was there I knew it was too big to fit in the room without making it look like the Ikea warehouse for odd furniture. Unfortunately, I was in love. I spent the rest of the day re-arranging every one of my belongings in order to accommodate the new addition, and as I did so I began to realise how few of my things I’d actually bought in a shop. I have a bookcase that I found in the street at Seven Dials; a mirror that I bought for £2 at a car boot sale; a 1970s record player with a matching amp and speakers that was lovingly assembled for me via eBay, Snooper’s Paradise and various charity shops with huge, dusty vinyl collections. Then there are my ornaments and paintings – my happy stuff – which seem to somehow draw me in to the perfect place at the perfect time. And don’t even get me started on my books. At a birthday party the other day a friend asked me where I bought my bag and I told her it was yet another charity shop purchase. She looked bewildered and said: “Every time I ask you where you got something you say a charity shop but whenever I go in there everything is ugly and smells bad.”
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