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
