The Colour Purple

 

- Val Bonsall

IT’S Saturday and I’m in the local charity shop where I volunteer. I love the relaxed atmosphere of people happily rummaging, no-one bothering them. But today I’m also seeing the advantages of big department stores, where you can go up to customers and say, “Can I help you?”

A handsome man has just come in and I can’t take my eyes off him, he is so handsome. I’d love an excuse to speak to him. Of course, we’d get on brilliantly and he’d invite me out for dinner that evening . . .

Be careful what you wish for. They say that, don’t they?

Moments later, I am speaking with one of our regulars when he comes up and says, “My bike – it’s gone!”

“Do you mean the one that was over there?” Oliver, our new lad, points towards the back of the store. “Yes.” “I sold it.” Oliver looks at me helplessly. “I shouted through to Zahra to ask how much it was because it didn’t have a price ticket, but I’d heard her saying a bike had just been brought in so . . .”

Zahra emerges from the back. She’s wonderful, and one of the shop’s longest serving volunteers.

“It was a child’s bike that was brought in,” she says. “A three-wheeler. I thought that was the one you were meaning, Oliver, but . . .” She breaks off as her gaze falls on a brightly coloured tricycle. “Obviously not.”

I wish a hole would open up and swallow me. Yes, I know what I’ve just said about being careful what you wish for, but I’m supposed to be in charge this weekend.

“You shouldn’t have brought it into the shop,” Caitlin, another of our young helpers, tells the bike man.

She’s what you might call feisty, and I think she rather fancies Oliver, which is why she’s taking his side.