Antiques stores. To me — fancy name for a
pawnshop. If Drake were to ask me "How you feel, how you feel, how feel?” Not interested, do not want to
hear about your joyous experiences, boring. However, my response to a friends offer to either stay in the
car or go inside with her was a
simple “Finnnnnne then, I’m counting to 900 in my head though!” no stomping, no
screaming, that was it. The minute I walked in, my eyes had lit up and I had a
life-size, real smile on my dial. I had even caught myself in this awkward mid
jog/fast walk in an attempt to skim through the store quick enough to ensure that my time was spent in the 'prettier' and more fascinating areas. Yes, dork. I felt like a little girl claiming nearly every
piece of furniture “I want this one, oh I change my mind I want this one!” The quality and state of these pieces were mind-boggling, what I thought was just a simple frame was labelled "Hand carved timber frame that
held the photograph of loved ones" a simple dressing table with iron handles was labelled "... handed down 5 generations" and a stuffed monkey named Iris was labelled "80 year old, hand made stuffed monkey" with a price tag off its left leg reading a staggering $670. With bouquets
of pink, purple and white flowers everywhere you look, varnished tables,
cabinets and chairs, hand carved timber, iron framed mirrors, china sets,
teapots, fascinators, fur vests and endless amounts of “aww look at that, it
looks like something out of …” Crazy that on the last Saturday afternoon in March 2012, amongst the chandeliers, cute cabinets, boxes of pennies and teaspoons - where I least expected it, I found a happy place.
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| A few snaps from my first real experience in an antique store. |
