“These articles are from a trade journal, The Gift Guide, for which I was a regular contributor, for five years, almost as long as I had my gift shop, “Juliana’s” in Wahroonga, from 1985 to 1990/91.  It was a time of great turmoil and growth for me.   Gerald and I were separated during that time, he had moved to Melbourne with IBM, and I experienced life as a single mother.   I had very supportive parents living close by, who were wonderful grandparents to Joshua, picking him up from school, supervising his homework, and looking after him when he was sick, as my working hours were sometimes long.  

 

It’s been interesting to look back at the young woman I was then.   I’ve cringed and I’ve laughed, remembering what was going on in my life then.  I was in my late thirties (I turned forty a year or two before I sold the shop) – and just a few months later, I bought another business Dynamic Demo’s, a demonstration company, which I had for a few years.   In my second year, I asked Gerald’s sister, Verna Parker, to become a partner in the business. Our personalities and our skills complemented each other well, and we very well worked as a team, and became very close friends, something I remember with gratitude and happiness today.

 

So much water under the bridge.

 

Thank you Catherine and Andy Hutchinson for turning this writing, straight from the magazine, into Word Documents for me.   Bless you both.”

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A SUBURBAN retailer describes the day-by-day woes—and joys—of selling giftware in Australia

HO, Ho, Ho. Yessireee, folks, it’s that time of year again ... getting ready, are we???

I like Christmas. I like dusting off the few bits of stock left over from last year at the beginning of October, and making a small corner into “Christmas”. Incongruous as it is, the small corner grows weekly until it becomes a very large corner, like the whole shop . . .

I like the same old comments, year after year, “No! Surely not! It can’t be THAT time of year again—CAN IT?”

Something of the child remains in me, the bit that delights in and anticipates the rushing, the fussing, the particular SMELL of Christmas. I love the month of December with hot days, warm rains, long daylight hours and the bustle of people on Important Errands.

The Scrooge in me LOVES the financial rewards that are plainly evident at this time of year—for we all admit that there are times we would rather pack up and go fishing, it’s so deadly quiet. Christmas is the time of year when Gift Shops come into Our Own, and sprint to the finishing line (and the Bank) in a burst of energy.

The Spring Gift Fairs always fill me with excitement and apprehension. And a certain smug superiority. After years of watching my husband travel all over the world on business trips, I love the important feel of ME setting off on a buying trip . .. ! Luggage, hotel reservations, aeroplane tickets, the works.

I love the adrenalin flow at the Fair, looking, comparing, pricing, wondering—the down-to-earth bump of knowing I am going to have to PAY for all of this, the stock, the hotel reservations, the aeroplane tickets, the works . ..

It is also the time of year when shoplifters dust off their fingers and Get Down to Business. I’ve lost enough expensive stock from right under the tip of my NOSE to consider frisking people entering and leaving my shop. Particularly school-age kids with bags . . .

And not only in retail. Not so long ago, one of our loveliest and most charming wholesalers of baby toys had a thief run off with a number of expensive items under each arm.

Our Girl, courageous and outraged, kicked off her heels, and set off in hot pursuit. Down corridors, into the street, ducking in and out of back alleyways. The thief, no doubt mortified by this display of determination, dropped her bundle and disappeared.

That takes guts. Well played, Lorraine!

A shop owner told me this story. He had experienced many thefts from his shop, and had the advantage of being young and muscular. He observed a teenager stealing from his shop, so waited (as the law demands) until the boy had left the store. He then pounced upon him on the footpath, took him into his stock room, and gave him what we shall euphemistically term “a good talking to".

It’s amazing what “a good talking to” can do. Being over six feet tall has its benefits. Being given “a good talking to” by a large man can be a daunting experience.

Word got out. No more shoplifting problems in THAT particular shop. But that still doesn’t help people like me, who need a stool for the second shelf, and tip the scales at 7'A stone.

I have seriously considered a large salivating German Shepherd but this would no doubt deter the honest customers.

What do YOU do???

Here I have An Important Announcement.

You may now don black armbands.

IT IS WITH SINCERE REGRET THAT I ANNOUNCE THE UNTIMELY DEMISE OF EMILY.

Well, actually, that's a lie, Emily is still alive and well, but Emily’s column is about to “demise”, and I expect your sincere condolences.

I have been writing this column for three years, and have experienced a great deal of life, and many emotions, whilst doing so. I have sat at 3am and sweated and despaired of ever finishing in time for the deadline. And there have been times when I have sat and sweetly enjoyed every line, with never a moment of anxiety, whilst my fingers tripped effortlessly over the keys, and the thoughts poured forth.

It’s like childbirth I guess. Some births are gruesome marathon events, and others “pop” out after a pain or two. This has been a “baby” of mine during this time, and I shall miss her very much. I have sold my shop.

Sob.

Just recently I wrote to you about the remembered traumas of buying my shop, and it seems appropriate to tell you of the traumas associated with selling my shop.

I have shared with you the joys and miseries of my Trading Place, and the enormous affection I have for my shop, my customers, and my suppliers. Some have become close friends. My staff are the best in the business, and our relationships touch my heart.

However, after five years, I felt it was time to change trains. My journey had become somewhat predictable. I sought a new challenge, I wanted a new horizon, I needed a new direction.

This posed great problems. What on EARTH would I do next? Would I buy another shop? Would I be fortunate and sell to an Arab millionaire who could not live without my Establishment to add to his collection of properties and then spend six months on the Riviera sipping French champagne and lamenting a broken fingernail as a real problem in my life.

Dun-da-dun-dun.

I loved my shop. Perhaps nobody else would? Perhaps I’d advertise, and nobody would be interested, rather like giving a party, and nobody turning up. . .

I trotted these questions back and forth in my mind, weighing up the pros and cons. I loved what I was doing, I had made many friends. I acknowledged my expertise in my field, and how secure and successful my business was. What competent staff I had! My good customers! Did I WANT to begin again somewhere else all over again???

If I was having these thoughts now, surely in another year or two, I would be stale and disinterested, and my whole shop would definitely Go Down The Drain. . . Good grief!—what a woeful thought. . .

There were customers who had expressed interest in buying. Would I approach them, and risk word getting out that I was restless, and upset my loyal customers? When? How? When? What? And WHY WHY WHY are you even CONSIDERING this, Emily. . .

Too late. The thought was firmly entrenched. Solid as concrete. Then came the BIGGY. Who in the world could POSSIBLY take care of my beautiful shop, my customers, and my stock like ME??? Without a doubt, there was nobody even vaguely qualified to do so, I was the ONLY ONE who could...

I went on holiday and agonised. Tossed and turned like a cod in a net instead of sleeping. And then Fate took a hand. A friend of a friend telephoned. And she wanted to buy my shop.

I immediately reversed all the positives about selling into negatives. I felt sick. I panicked. I cried. What was I doing, for HEAVEN’S SAKE? This was my beloved shop, my business, my LIVELIHOOD, something I had fought for and worked for, slaved over. .. This was a terrific top business. Only a FOOL would sell.

Having thoroughly convinced myself of my indispensability, I met the interested party. She was everything I wanted in a prospective new owner. She was charming, vital, bubbly, intelligent, friendly, warm and witty. I felt insecure.

I hated her immediately.

A certain smirk, a certain smugness weaselled its way into my life. Who did she think she was, for heaven's sake, wanting to take over MY SHOP? (nervous laughter). Didn’t she realise the customers loved ONLY ME, and I had a very special understanding of their needs? I knew with a deep inner conviction that she would NEVER be able to run my shop in the same efficient and marvellous way that I did. ..

Like a wife who discovers her husband has a mistress who is not only beautiful and sexy, but intelligent as WELL (insult to injury)—I discovered JEALOUSY. If only she’d been a bit on the UGLY side. Or less competent. Or not so kind and generous. This woman was TOO MUCH.

Ah. Life. What gifts it can bring us, and not only in our gift shops. This lady and I have become good friends, with a shared purpose, our "baby”. We share a lot together, and we admire and respect each other. Despite all the dire warnings from people about never being able to sell a house or a business to someone and still remain on good terms, we did.

More than that. I sold a shop. And I gained a friend: a wonderful friend. I know my shop is in the hands of someone who cares. The day I left the shop for the last time, after packing up all my personal belongings from the stock room (old post cards, tampax, used-up lipstick tubes, and inspirational verse from the walls), I cried my eyes out. I felt as if I was leaving a child behind.

She, dear lady, understood, wiped my eyes, and hugged me tight.

Every time I am in the area, I call in. Habit dies hard. I flip through the sales book, calculating profits, suss out the new stock, answer the phone, and feel immediately at home. She makes me welcome, and it has eased the transition from Shop Owner to Ex Shop Owner tremendously.

Thank you so much, kind lady.

Saying goodbye to my customers was another surprisingly sad time. I never knew how many people thought I was so incredibly wonderful all the time. (These things are only said when one is leaving, dying or being lied to.) I was given flowers and cards and gifts.

Farewelling my suppliers caused me sorrow. At the Trade Fair, introducing the new owner, and me in the role of the Coach, not Owner, was difficult. I remembered every vivid detail of how inconsiderate my previous owner had been, and went out of the way to make the new owner feel welcome, confident, and supported.

And everybody loves her.

It is now a phase of my life that is past, and whilst I would not be honest if I said I have loved every moment of it (let’s face it, it’s hard work), I would be equally dishonest to say i have not enjoyed myself tremendously. Or that I miss it very much.

And I shall miss you, dear readers, too. Thank you for reading this column, or I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to write and to learn and to grow in the way that I know I have. (Nor would I have got a cheque from Robin every now and then.)

I remember, so much, at this time. With lots of love and affection. Memories, like photographs, are wonderful to take out and smile over.

Go well, in your Trading Places.

With all my love,