Buying Magic, Borrowing Books, and Being Invisible in a Bikini

Buying Magic

On one family day out in the Year of the First Shopping Ban (or 2019, as some people call it), Dai, the Spud and I ended up in Burley, a small village in the New Forest which draws a substantial tourist crowd for its ties to Wicca and witchcraft, as the home of the famous witch Sybil Leek. Full of shops packed with incense, crystals, jewellery, witch figurines, spell components, hippie clothing and more, it's a lovely quirky place and has long been one of my favourite places to visit. But during the shopping ban, I'd had many of the shops there mentally earmarked as "shops I wouldn't be able to resist".

And yet, I did! We had a delicious dinner in the tea rooms and a walk around, but I didn't find myself tempted by a single thing. In fact, the phrase "New Age crap" drifted through my mind more than once. I wasn't getting caught up by the atmosphere, the vibe of the place. I just... wasn't buying it. 

In some ways it was a little sad that the dazzle of the magic shops no longer had the power to instill such wonder, but at the end of the day, a shop is just a shop, whether it sells esoterica or groceries, and all else is glamour, an illusion designed to get you to part with some cash. 

Don't get me wrong... I strongly, firmly, utterly believe in magic! In many ways, I am the perfect victim - sorry, target audience, for the peddlers of smudge sticks, crystals, Himalayan singing bowls, Tarot cards and whathaveyou. Yes, all right, I own three decks of oracle cards and my favourite magazine is Enchanted Living. Guilty as charged, I am full woo-woo, I just keep it under wraps most of the time because I don't go in for tie dye skirts or crushed velvet (not right this minute, anyway). 

I am all for having a little enchantment in your life. It adds glamour to the humdrum, a bit of sparkle - even meaningfulness - to the everyday. It fuels creativity. I just don't believe that you can buy magic. 

Yes, there are shops in which you can buy ingredients for every spell and potion you can think of. Yes, I once had a heavy interest in Wicca and bulk-ordered candles, velvet altar cloths, pentacle jewellery, herbs and all kinds of other paraphernalia, but over time I realised, well, it's just not the same, is it? Like buying spellbooks and grimoires from Amazon (done that, too). Doesn't it then lose its charm? Its meaning? Maybe it doesn't matter if you buy your lavender or grow it in your own herb garden. But maybe it does? Not least in our modern era, when your healing crystals could have been sourced from an industrial mine using the labour of underage workers, and your cleansing herbs threatening the potential survival of a species. Nothing very magical about that.

Borrowed Books

Similarly, but in less of a space cadet vein, let's return to the topic of buying books on Amazon. What a soulless process that is, compared to the many happy hours of my youth spent in bookshops, charity shops, book fairs and the good old free library. Like many people, I have done it an awful lot, because it's convenient and cheap. But with reviews, GoodReads, book blogs and other such tools, I now know everything about a book before my fingers have even touched the cover. I enter the relationship already knowing that three other readers thought the ending was weak. During the shopping ban, I rediscovered the pleasure of borrowing books, from libraries and from friends, and thereby rediscovered the serendipity of finding a hidden gem, something which no "readers also bought" suggestion list can ever truly replicate.

An insidious tendency in our modern society is that we don't buy anything without reading reviews. Sometimes, this is a matter of common sense - electronics, car seats - sometimes you really do need an objective opinion. But sometimes, I have come to notice, I use other people's opinions to guide me instead of making my own choices. In today's world, we automatically make our choices based on other people's experiences, from GoodReads to TripAdvisor, to what we think will get the most likes on Instagram. I've never forgotten a friend mentioning on her blog that she ordered avocado toast in a cafe because "as we all know, avocado is having a moment right now."

Our First Family Holiday

In July 2019 we took our first holiday as a new family, to the Isle of Wight. In a rare moment of prescience, I had booked and paid for the short trip during the early months of my pregnancy, guessing correctly that by this stage of the game Dai and I would be tired, stressed and desperate for a change of scenery. I didn't expect that I would have blown my savings, although my reluctance to ever look at my bank statements should perhaps have clued me in. 

Previously, holidays had given me yet more opportunities to splurge. First of all, a new holiday wardrobe - sandals, shoes, floaty floral dresses, a floppy straw hat that would be annoying as heck to wear and never see the light of day again. Then I would buy the equivalent of another new wardrobe whilst ON holiday - I must admit to a fondness for certain overpriced surf clothing brands - not to mention all the books and souvenirs I would generally buy. At some point I'd stopped looking at holidays and day trips as breaks or adventures - they had just become an opportunity to do some more consumption in a different place. This had hit its peak some years previous when I went to Whitby Goth Weekend - I went with one suitcase and came back with five, which made the long train journey home nothing short of a misery.

This time, things would be different. Dai had suggested I set myself a £1 budget to buy what he called "a proper souvenir" like a pin badge or stick of rock, as would have been the case when we were kids. At first I resisted this idea, but eventually I realised I was looking for a loophole which would allow me to go and buy a new hoodie or whatever from Billabong or Rip Curl. So £1 it was.

As it turned out, I didn't even spend that much on myself. Though we stayed just moments away from Shanklin Old Town and all its quirky gift shops, nothing caught my eye or piqued my interest for more than a moment. I was able to put all of the holiday money I'd squirrelled away towards entry to attractions, food for our self-catering apartment, and some lovely evening meals out.

It wasn't the most restful holiday we'd ever had. Little Spud didn't want to sleep in an unfamiliar cot, and the one-room apartment grew hot and sticky at nights. Yet I had a good time, and it wasn't lost on me that the best day of the holiday involved no phones, cameras or even money - we took the Spud swimming for the first time at a hotel nearby. We had free access to their facilities as the same people owned the hotel and apartment building, but by good luck and happenstance we had the pool all to ourselves that afternoon. The Spud absolutely loved it, and I'll never forget the brilliance of his smile and his delighted squeals.

It was also a turning point for me, as I hadn't worn a swimsuit of any kind in public since I was about fifteen years old. My body image is something that, like many women, I have wrestled with, and I'd simply stopped going swimming over a decade ago so that I didn't have to reveal my human, imperfect body. Bad skin and disordered eating had left me convinced that I would end up the butt of every joke if I ventured into the water. But I did it, once at the hotel pool, once at the beach, and absolutely nothing happened. No one looked twice at me. What a relief it was to discover that no one cared! Another blow against that carping inner voice.