“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.”

***************************************************************************************************************

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

Thank Heavens it’s Gone. Christmas.

Don’t get me wrong. I really do like Christmas. But Christmas in a gift shop has all the serenity of Times Square on New Year’s Eve, and I’m always grateful when good, reliable, quiet, peaceful January comes around.

For starters, "White Christmas” and “Jingle Bells” have been consigned to the archives for another 10 months. And it's such a relief to revert to type and be able to display the less attractive side of my personality. It’s really NICE to grouch around a bit. (I feel a pressure at Christmas time to be consistently kind, cheerful, sweet and generous, and it’s such a pain in the rear end.)

About the 477th time I wished a customer "Happy Christmas”, my jaws seized up and my tongue got tangled around my teeth.

I mean there are just SO MANY ways one can say “Happy Christmas” with real warmth and sincerity ... (I don’t want my customers thinking I express these same sentiments to JUST ANYONE now, do I?)

January brings the forgotten luxury of spending three minutes wrapping a parcel, instead of the world record-breaking 13.2 seconds in December (with bows). The urge to tell certain customers to emigrate to Chernobyl has almost disappeared. There are not six deliveries a day to unpack and the resultant packaging to be disposed of.

January does, however, have its own set of problems.

Everyone except me is sporting a healthy tan and have all just come back from (a) exotic overseas destinations, or (b) quiet little spots up the coast. All the women are wearing fashionable, colourful summer outfits they picked up for a song at the summer sales. Families have spent so much time bonding they are sick to death of the sight of each other.

Some fortunate women are having a hard time getting to the manicurist, beautician and hairdresser because of the demands of their offspring. Many people actually lunch alongside swimming pools, with their children splashing gaily about wearing techni-colour zinc on their noses. Tennis skirts are de rigeur. The hungerforming aroma of barbecue fills the skies. The houses in "Palmie” and Sorrento are open for the duration of the summer. The traffic is less congested. Customers are less stressed and more pleasant.

All good stuff. Except for us. Imprisoned in our gift shops, with another 11 months ahead to the bonanza of Christmas.

I don’t know about you, but I’d LOVE to sit in the sun mid-week and have a boozey barbecue. I fantasise about elbowing my way into a summer sale and snapping up the neat bargain on the rack, in my favourite colours and just my size. I want to spend so much time with my kid that we’re sick of the sight of each other. I desire a golden tan to go with my bargain summer sale dress.

Instead, we now turn our attention to OUR sales, and the necessary restocking at the Trade Fair.

And it’s at this time of year I remember buying my shop, and the trauma of my VERY FIRST Trade Fair.

★ ★ ★

First, the Shop.

The previous owner was legally obliged to spend two weeks “handing over” in the shop with me. She unfortunately was struck down with a mysterious illness on the VERY DAY she was due in the shop, and didn’t recover until exactly two weeks later. ..

So imagine this. There I was, finally alone in my Shop. The proud and enthusiastic owner, all dressed up, breathless with pleasure and excitement. Like a girl on her first date, I knew some of the THEORY, but had never put any of this into practice . ..

It was all so CUTE! There was a REAL counter, and a proper drawer for money. A telephone of my own. A Bankcard machine that leered ominously at me from a corner, plastic bags with my shop name on them, a proper stock room, and things to sell and EVERYTHING!!!! (Exactly like when I played “shops” as a little girl.)

Reality set in. Inside I was wobbling like a creme caramel. What would I do when one of “them” (a customer) approached me? Talk? Throw out a casual yet sincere greeting? Bustle professionally and advise? Did one leave them to it, discuss the weather or throw them to the ground and threaten to garrotte them unless they bought?

Strange how different it all was On this Side of the Counter. I was a veteran of spending money and buying. I was a questioning and selective consumer. I had impeccable taste and judgement, a keen and critical eye for quality and value. But now I was supposed to FLOG THE STUFF and had no idea how to go about it...

The only customers who ventured into the shop expressed disappointment when they saw me, and only wanted to see Her (She, of before Me). I listened, eyes glazed, for days whilst people extolled Her virtues. How charming she was. Glorious taste. Wonderful buyer. How much everybody missed her.

Nobody appeared to buy anything, even though I constantly reassured suspicious customers that, yes, the same consistently wonderful stock would fill the shop; and, no, I definitely wouldn’t change anything. (I was so paranoid about this that the only time I moved anything was to vacuum underneath. This lasted some weeks.)

Sales plummeted. I spent hours going over her sales figures, convinced (a) they had been doctored, (b) I had been had, and (c) that she was probably on holiday in the Bahamas with my money laughing at my extreme foolishness in buying this obviously inferior establishment from her.

I didn’t know what stock was in the place. I certainly didn’t know any prices. All the booklets, well-thumbed, from the Small Business Association hadn’t prepared me for any of this! My normally exuberant confidence depleted daily. Yes, it was as plain as the nose on my face. I’d obviously made a Terrible Mistake buying this shop. Nobody would ever buy anything from me. Nobody even LIKED me. I would go broke and spend the remaining years of my life in squalid poverty paying off my debts. My house would be repossessed and my child removed from my care.

Yes, there was No Doubt. This was my biggest Mistake. Trust me. Always was too Big for my Boots. What had ever made me think for a MOMENT I could run a gift shop the way I had tackled every other job in my life, competently, efficiently and successfully? I was paralysed at the thought of failure. I lay awake at nights, making financial calculations, preparing my defence for the bankruptcy courts, and worrying myself to death over the tiniest details.

★ ★ ★

And so it came to pass: I was in this state of mind when I attended my first Trade Fair, with two weeks of shopkeeping under my belt.

She (of Before Me) surprisingly and graciously agreed to accompany me to the Fair. My newly acquired cynical attitude questioned “Why would this women who threw me to the lions in the shop accompany me to the Fair?” (I was soon to discover.) Meanwhile, commonsense prevailed. I NEEDED THIS WOMAN! So I slobbered with gratitude. I clung to her every uttered word with the reverence of a disciple speaking to The One.

We set off. Me, rosy cheeked, fresh, eager, and enthusiastic, somewhat reassured by her presence. She wore flatties. I wore high heels. And that was only the start of visible proof of her experience and my inexperience. I had my name stuck on my left breast. I felt very important. I also had a neat little blue clipboard, a brand new pencil and my cheque book.

Heady stuff.

What happened was this. She swanned from stand to stand, with me scurrying three paces behind in her wake. Like her Royal Servant. I waited, breathlessly, to hear the words of the Wise One. She demonstrated her close affection and intimacy with all the suppliers, and often forgot my presence. After plucking ineffectually at her sleeve, I summoned up the courage to introduce myself as the New Owner. Several times.

She, meanwhile, was very busy replenishing her linen closet, gift drawer, china cabinet, and wardrobe. Occasionally she would toss some morsel of information to me which I fell upon with the greed of a ravenous beast.

It was all so confusing. How did anyone know what to BUY? Four hundred and fifty stands to choose from. How many whatsits? What colour whatsits? When did I want delivery? (Doubt: Do I WANT delivery?) What on earth was a pro forma? What references did I have? (Nobody had even HEARD of Father Murphy ...) I suffered these agonies, waiting in line to be served, amongst a thousand other people. When I fronted the head of the queue, I became immediately dumb when instructed to “Give me your order now”.

Here a word of thanks to those sensitive and caring people who recognised my anguish, and waited patiently whilst I panicked and floundered. People who advised and guided me to the right selections. Bless you. And to the unscrupulous few who took advantage of my inexperience and pushed old and unsuitable stock on me (“Oh yes, you need at least 24 of these . . . didn’t she tell you?”)—I STILL stick pins in your effigies.

My calculator ran hot as I feverishly totted up every single purchase. Calculated sales tax. Entered delivery dates into my diary. Consulted my cheque book balance. Gnawed relentlessly on my pencil until it was half its original size.

I was SO GLAD to leave that madhouse at the end of the day. And when I finally got to bed, I was stiff as a board in a state of ulcer-inducing stress all night long.

Ah, yes. I wouldn’t go back THERE for all the champagne in France. (Well.. .)

So every now and then at the Fair, when I spot someone who looks Just Like I Did, I go out of my way to find something reassuring to say to them. I hope you do. It’s an ugly, horrible, no good, very bad, terrible time.

★ ★ ★

And now, to DUCKS.

Hands up, how many of us remain unaffected by ducks?

I thought so. Not many.

The rest of us know that ducks are BIG NEWS at the moment. Some time ago, bears were IN. And there is still a certain fringe element who will always be loyal bear followers. But ducks are Where It’s At now. Because ducks are different. And they’re just about EVERYWHERE.

My first association with ducks was as a child. My mother had three flying up her wall in the lounge room. No doubt your mother had a trio as well. I thought they were the “pits" in interior decor and often told my mother so in lofty tones. This exchange of information condemned my mother’s obviously gross and inferior decorating abilities, and suggested that my own, obviously superior ones, would one day become apparent in my own home. I would never be seen DEAD with ducks on MY walls.

What a surprise to discover that these same birds I labelled as common, crass and twee are now avidly sought as collectors items. Ducks have become the in vogue decorator item, and are now regarded as stylish, innovative and DARINGLY DIFFERENT.

I sell so many ducks, I made a rough guesstimate that every home in Australia is in possession of at least 17.4 ducks. I must confess, however, that recent enthusiastic converts to duck-ism may well be using up a certain percentage of someone else's duck allocation.

This leads us to the now fashionable art of duck counting, a direct offshoot of duck selling, duck buying and duck collecting. This is oftimes carried out by small children. It involves walking from room to room, screeching with laughter at the ever increasing total, and counting, LOUDLY. Certain rules apply. A teatowel covered in 36 ducks counts for 36 ducks, although it is strictly only a one duck item.

This can lead to embarrassing disclosures by said small children to other big people, generally after a conversation on how gullible some other big people are: isn’t it ridiculous that intelligent people can be taken in by fads or trends and blatant consumerism??

It’s quite hilarious to think of grown women growing dewy eyed over a decorative duck. They’re not even cuddly. And live ones aren’t that much fun either. They are noisy, unaffectionate and defecate a lot.

I have 612 in my house. All of these were, of course, chosen carefully and with an eye to beauty, and without a trace of sentiment, and they are ANYTHING but kitsch.

Unlike my mother with her three flying ducks.

I only wish she'd kept them for me.

★ ★ ★

May 1988 be a fulfilling and financial year for all of us.

Go well in your Trading Places.