Bric-a-brac

So now I am finally back in Oxford staring into an algebraic topology textbook with a horror I will fortunately only know for 6 more months now.

Had a delightful day with my parents yesterday - they came to bring all my stuff down from home. After a quite delicious, although not altogether nutritious, breakfast at Maison Blanc we drove to Witney in West Oxfordshire. The aforementioned town is actually the constituency of the Leader of HM Opposition - but don't let that put you off, it is actually rather a charming place apparently once know for its thriving blanket industry but now dominated by charity shops.

Charity shops positively thrill my parents which is perhaps not unusual now that they are both around sixty. The sad truth is, however, that from as early as I can remember I have been dragged to these temples of tat, and I blame television. Wall-to-wall screenings of antiques shows like Bargain Hunt, Cash In the Attic and the rather shocking Car Booty seem to have convinced my parents that if you look long and hard enough you will eventually find a Titian behind a copy of a 1989 Jason Donovan Annual in a Sue Ryder Shop in rural Worcestershire. Consequently I have developed a distaste for charity shops; this is not to demean the excellent work they do for worthy causes and the feeling of purpose they give to the pensioners who work in them, I just can't handle them. Bric-a-brac especially disturbs me: in its presence my heart race increases and my breathing quickens - a porcelain cockerel here, a golden jubilee commemorative place there, an egg slicer...

"Ooooo, look at this barometer!" my mother cooed. Feeling I was about to hyperventilate I sat down.

"What do you think?" said my Dad, sporting a grey tweed jacket with those buttons that look like footballs circa 1974. I nodded and smiled sympathetically and waited for my mother to correct him.

20 minutes and a VHS of Jesus Christ Superstar later we headed for a much needed cup of tea.