Wendyl Nissen: Lost opportunity

I hand $3 to an elderly lady who has had to put on her glasses to read the price tag. "Would you like a bag?" she asks sweetly.

"No, they are fine as they are," I reply, thus ensuring I wouldn't spend another 10 minutes in the shop while she found a bag. I knew how long it would take because it took her 10 minutes to find her glasses and 10 minutes before that to inspect each plate.

I look at my purchase of six retro melamine picnic plates in six fun colours and realise I don't want them. But it had been a long, unsuccessful day of op-shopping which had seen me visit eight charity shops and I was desperate.

Usually my car would be stacked to the brim with boxes of precious old Agee preserving jars, a bright old sun umbrella complete with tassels, an exquisite old rug and a Pringle wool cardie. I would be eager to add them to my already cluttered home, having spent a mere $54.50.

But today was not one of those days. I should have known something was up when my first shop of the day revealed a woman unlike any I had encountered before.

"Oh that's a relief," she said to me.

"Sorry?" I said politely.

"It's the first time I've coughed this morning when nothing's come out the other end."

"Righto then. That's good," was all I could think to say.

She then told me about the night she had spent on the loo, the stress her husband caused her, the grandchild who had the runs, and finished with another update on the state of her bottom. "Might risk having something to eat and see if it stays quiet."

I left the shop with some unasked questions. What had the husband done to create such stress? Infidelity? Ill-health? Had I touched anything in the shop that might later ensure I, too, would have a problem when I coughed?

The next shop had two ladies so engrossed in their conversation about a charity dinner that they didn't notice me down on all fours attempting to reach behind an old bed to see if a box held some Agee jars.

"I just couldn't get myself out of the house to go," said one. "You know how it is, just easier to get some fish and chips and watch the telly."

"Yes, well I thought it was worth the effort and thank goodness I went because the turnout was dismal. Too many people at home with their fish and chips," she said pointedly.

"Was my name mentioned?" replied the fish-and-chip eater rather abruptly.

"I couldn't say," said the other mysteriously.

"I'll find out. Someone always tells me," said fish-and-chip woman.

I left wondering why an elderly woman with a penchant for fish and chips would be mentioned at a charity do. Perhaps they name and shame those who don't turn up.

Or maybe they give performance appraisals for op-shop workers and the fish and chip woman was in the running for top seller, having shifted two Tupperware sets, a woollen blanket and an old stereo that week.

By my eighth shop, I was in a right old mood. All all I had to show for my morning was The Penguin Book of Home Brewing and Wine-Making (50c), 300 Recipes for Pressure Cookers (50c), a home brew vat ($4) and now six unwanted melamine picnic plates.

"You'd never guess she just turned 92," someone said as the woman who had just served me tottered off home.

Suddenly my empty car, the unspent $50 and the lack of old jars and sun umbrellas faded into insignificance.

"You volunteers do such an amazing job," I gushed, throwing $50 at her, full of remorse for my bad mood and ridiculous op-shop materialism.

"You dropped this," said my husband handing me the money as he got in the car.

"That old woman gave it to me. You really need to be more careful."