“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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IT’S a year since the Melbourne August Gift Fairs. Yes, it IS. This lightning rush of time should propel us all into joining a superannuation fund and selecting a suitable colour hair dye.

I don't know about you, but I can’t STAND it! Is it INEVITABLE we join a superannuation fund and dye our hair do you think??

We go to the trade fairs to buy stock; hopefully terrific stock that will WALK off the shelves. However, there are times I walk around the fairs and truly MARVEL at the enormous range of glitzy, nasty, plastic, downright UGLY merchandise available. (Ever tried compiling a shopping list that would fill a shop with goods that will never sell? Just for fun?)

I am a curious soul by nature and ponder: “Do they sell this stuff?” And if so, "Who buys it?" “Whose home does it end up in?" Such thoroughly repulsive stock MUST sell to someone, or it wouldn’t be there, year after year.

I imagine a home brimming with plastic coloured fruits; shelves full of vases and bowls in tortured, twisted shapes; beds bursting with purple and lime green fluffy toys wearing unhappy expressions; and useless, unlovely knick-knacks untastefully displayed.

And get this: someone, somewhere buys tinned farts, edible knickers, nylon aprons and fringed lampshades bearing heavily sexual messages.

But the card sections are lots of fun. Not for a moment should you assume I am a prude by nature. Oh no!—not me! My son and I regularly exchange lewd jokes and fall about clutching our sides in merriment. Yes, undoubtedly, when it comes to lewd, I’m somewhere in the front row.

But, I am stunned that some of these cards pass the censors. At the fairs, my partner and I visit the card stands twice daily for a little light relief from the stress of purchasing, we giggle girlishly sometimes blush, but thoroughly enjoy the clever wording, and even cleverer photographs.

I fantasise about a shelf full of wicked cards in my upmarket and genteel establishment, and how I would SHOCK THE SOCKS off my ladies.

Incidentally, have you noticed how the card salesmen are always macho and hitch up their trousers a lot??

QUARTERLY WHINGE

YOU and I spend a lot of time finding new and different products for our shelves. Sometimes I buy with particular customers in mind who are informed of the marvellous stock which is coming in.

So it is extremely disappointing and maddeningly frustrating to have said stock arrive in 3000 pieces.

PLEASE NOTE: It is NOT sufficient to pack a breakable article in three sheets of tissue paper and place it in a cardboard box. Commonsense tells one this is definitely NOT THE THING TO DO.

Recently I eagerly awaited a consignment of beautiful stock from interstate, and so did my customers. On arrival, the box was too big to fit through the doorway, and so we unpacked on the footpath. (Much to the amusement of passers-by.)

Every single item was smashed—the top half of the box was empty and the broken 3000 pieces nestled lovingly together amongst a few bits of flimsy paper at the bottom of the box.

A phone call to supplier followed—he lost his temper before I lost mine, but I acquitted myself admirably. (A tough skin is one of the by products of this business.)

I told him the packaging was hopelessly inadequate, a fact he hotly denied, and told me that I was the only person in the whole of AUSTRALIA who had ever complained . . . (Discreet investigations proved otherwise.)

Second batch of goods was dispatched, and received. This may be hard to believe, but its Scouts Honour Truth: the second consignment was equally badly packed. Miraculously, three items has survived the journey.

Second phone call ensued. This time I lost my temper first. (He didn’t acquit himself admirably and was abominably rude.) The end result was that I landed up with three items for sale, a credit note for the breakages, the cost of two long distance phone calls, and the TRANSPORT COSTS.

I now sign every consignment note “unexamined". Who has time to unpack a delivery to see if everything is perfect before the delivery man leaves? This was a suggestion he put to me!!

I do get lots of stock from far away, which is so well packed that I immediately recognise that it is a “five broken finger nail” unpacking exercise, and several bins full of cardboard and bubble plastic to be disposed of.

But it ARRIVES IN ONE PIECE. (And I have never yet sent anyone a claim for the cost of a manicure . . . )

Wholesalers, please take note. Plastic, polystyrene, paper and patience equals perfect purchases.

ON THE CRIME FRONT

EVER thought about an armed hold up? (No, not DOING one, being on the receiving end of one?)

The shop up the road, a clothing boutique, was recently "done”. The whole street was abuzz with wailing police cars, weeping women, shocked bystanders and a very unpleasant, insecure atmosphere.

It was for me an interesting diversion on an otherwise dull, quiet, and cold winter’s day. I was also pathetically grateful it wasn't me. The owner will no doubt have nightmares for years.

It’s a lot easier to walk off with racks of expensive clothing than to make off with a lot of smaller gift items. Who can imagine a hooded bandit packing a suitcase or two full of breakables? (“Pass the tissue paper and Cellotape, will you love?”)

However, we ARE all targets for having our cash stolen. My family (loving, interfering, and anxious) have long grilled me on “How to Behave in the Event of a Hold Up”.

Beats me how anybody could assume for a SECOND that I would say anything other than "Help Yourself”. To risk my life for a till full of cash is undoubtedly the dumbest thing I can at this minute think of.

No, there I'd be, Staying Alive, shivering in fear under the counter, handing up the cash over my head. HOW ABOUT YOU?

My mother has cleverly masterminded what she fondly imagines is a burglar-proof and highly original scheme to take the money to the bank. We put it in a plastic Woolies bag.

The theory is that any thief worthy of his trade would instantly turn his attention to more blatant and foolish carriers of cash, having worked out that OUR bag is carrying six tins of Snappy Tom.

This has about the same security benefits as hiding one’s front door key under the mat, but my Mother cackles with cunning every time she does it. She Has Done Something To Prevent A Crime.

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

THE “OOPS!” DEPARTMENT

YOU are probably unaware that I am an exceedingly mature, sensible, well rounded and growing individual. I know this for a fact because I have attended many Self Awareness Courses over the years.

I Got In Touch with my Feelings, now Understand My Actions, and Love Myself. I also Accept Life. I don’t want to brag, but I am also in the Advanced Yoga Class.

So it came as a bit of a surprise to discover that I failed to pick up a little something called “Tact” in this expensive process. I do realise you, dear readers, are not a part of my Personal Growth Group, but I feel I can safely share this with you and know it will go no further. ..

Several of my customers are pregnant. There are three gynaecologists in my immediate area, and on certain days they "consult” (??) So I have a succession of ladies, in varying sizes, buying baby goods in the shop.

I pride myself on being able to tell them the sex of their unborn babies. I have an excellent record, and am 50 per cent right. These ladies share with me the agonies of pregnancy and motherhood, and we exchange hair-raising labour stories.

The THINGS I have heard—well, you wouldn't BELIEVE. Some of them have tried to fall pregnant for years; but this is steamy stuff, and not for your respectable and gentle ears, dear reader.

However. I digress. One very liberal spending lady and I had advanced through her pregnancy together. There was a period of some weeks when I did not see her. When she re-appeared, I practised a bit of PR and dashed over to her and enthusiastically asked; “Not long now, huh?"

This impetuous and callous comment will be branded in my tactless heart forever. The initial stony, hostile stare swiftly turned to heartbroken sobs and an explanation in something that sounded like Xhosa.

Being the Aware Person I am, I quickly deduced she had had her baby three weeks earlier. I rushed for the Kleenex. She dribbled into the soft toy section. I babbled and apologised (also in Xhosa) to no avail.

Who needs to be told at that moment you're not going to be FAT forever? How insensitive, unfeeling, unkind and LOUTISH I can be . . .

I didn't THINK enough.

Fortunately, she is still a customer. (A slim customer.) She also has a beautiful baby. Beware spontaneous comments, no matter how well intentioned.

Be warned: women are unpredictable creatures at the best of times, but immediately before and after birth are particularly so. Any references to hippos, the Queen Mary and beached whales should be ruthlessly eliminated from one’s conversation.

AND I WISH YOU A HAPPY . ..

I REALISE this column has had a certain emphasis on pregnancy. No, I am not expecting a happy event. The only happy event I am anticipating is

CHRISTMAS!!

And so should you.

Get to it folks. Dust off the wreaths and the holly, order the Santas, stock up on the red ribbon because it will be here before you’ve learned all the words to "Come All Ye Faithful”. You don’t want to hum the bits you don't know for ever do you?

Buy well. And go well, in your Trading Places!