Falling Into Fifties

I’m long past that awkward, self-conscious stage.

I was never fashionable and so never had any street cred. But still, being around twelve or thirteen, I would steer my Mum away from the Oxfam window she was about to look in, lest any school friend should see us.

“Scav!” would be the gibe.

Thrift shops I think the Americans call them.

At what point do your scruples change?

Last week I got a pair of jeans for £3.50. I’ve also picked up a jacket for £7.00.

Is this my market now? Falling into my fifties.

It also seems appropriate that I’m mulling this over while passing through a late autumn afternoon, dappled fields lost to a host of daddy longlegs and spiders; ground conceded to the worms of the earth.

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