I've got a weakness for junk shops. Just can't pass them by. Sometimes I linger, just looking, picking stuff up, putting it down, my mind on walk-about. Something small might set me off, like a battered little brass vase I spot on a dusty shelf among old kettles and broken toasters. Unlovely and dented, but in my mind's eye it's already sitting on a sunny windowsill somewhere, displaying a posy of sweetpeas.
I don't always buy, that's not what it's about.
No, it's more about the purposeless foraging, rummaging around, but with the vague promise of excitement, of finding treasure, some unbelievable bargain. Or maybe just spotting some gewgaw that kicks up old memories, or something truly bizarre that makes me smile (a sequined embroidery of Nicholas Cage's face, most…
