Jo Stubbings | When op shop donations reach the tipping point

These are the perfect times for a bit of surreptitious stuffed-bag dumping - sorry, donating - on an industrial scale, right outside the front doors of op shops across the nation.

Why do op shop managers and volunteers not like this habit? It's not because we're hardened harpies who'd deny you the very dress you're wearing.

It's because all's fair in love and war and pilferers shouldn't have first dibs on treasures, and it is usually treasures they're after. More specifically, pilferers make a mess.

It's true that many op shop donors persist in dumping at dusk, despite stern signage telling them not to, and fake warnings about CCTV monitors capturing their every move.

"We know you crammed that Mickey Mouse bean bag up against the door so we can hardly open up on Monday morning" the signs seem to imply.

"Your actions have been noted accordingly and we will..." What? What is the punishment for illegal acts of benevolence?

The op shop scene, like most other commercial enterprises, has changed a lot since COVID restrictions ended. But its issues are unique. Volunteers are simply overloaded. The big black garbage bags bursting with booty are taking over like The Blob, engulfing the shop floor, engulfing the sorting areas. We're super grateful for the donations of course; we love going through the ornaments of your kindness, but please hold off a little. Don't stop! Just donate smaller for now.

The reasons for the inundation of goods to op shops merit a doctoral thesis. But basically, we humans in the West have too much stuff. And as though we've suddenly noticed this, we're cleaning out our homes for a sea change or a tree change or we're converts to Marie Kondo because that shirt or that skirt no longer gives us joy.

Whatever the reason, metaphorically and literally, we're shedding big time, and mama, the op shops can't take it.

Some of the larger op shop chains have put a halt to donations for the time being, which is putting extra pressure on the smaller charity op shops unwilling to ever say no.

A quick word on declining single donations face to face. Don't do it unless it's a whacking big keyless piano.

You'll just offend the gentry, and they won't feel kindly towards you or the charity they're supporting. Incredibly, almost every customer slips into a sales pitch when spurned: "Look I know it's got a few teeth marks, but I paid $300 for this lamp 10 years ago."

Or "It's a top-quality clock, it's only the hour hand that fell off."

I reckon donations to op shops fall into three main categories: out of this world, of this world, and junk.

At our own little op shop in the leafy burbs, we're lucky enough to receive staggeringly generous donations of luxe clothing Princess Mary would be proud to wear. Two-hundred-dollar dresses, some still with labels, sell for 20 bucks and customers and volunteers alike vow never to shop in department stores again.

Linked to these fantastic offerings are the vintage donations from deceased estates whose relatives don't know the value of the Fabergé egg or the Ming vase they're bringing in or don't want to be bothered putting it all on eBay. These donations are the crème de la crème for discerning customers or dealers and benefit the op shop charity big time.

(Anthropological observation: young people rarely regard vintage ware as "fully sick" so no takers there.)

The second donation category is the practical middle-of-the-road stuff. It doesn't excite but it always fills the bill. It's the clean and ironed spencers for winter, the deep glass bowls for trifles, the knitting needles size 3 for jumpers (one volunteer spent 10 hours at home sorting them into pairs).

These donations are the solid-citizen stuff, needed and wanted.

The third category of donations is an enthralling mix of muck and mind-blowing curiosities.

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Usually these appear in the ubiquitous big black rubbish bags and are filled with floppy garments that have had the bejesus knocked out of them. Curiously, the dominant colour is grey.

If a bag of donations reflects the personality of the donor, these sad and sorry floppies, seem to say "I haven't got time to really assess these items but I don't want to just throw them out. So here, have some dirty socks and holey undies. They're on the house." "Oh, and here's an X-ray of grandma's arthritic spine. Someone might like it."

Sometimes you feel you're almost standing next to the donor as they prepared the bag, absentmindedly tossing in a few ciggie butts and half-eaten muffins.

So what happens to these offerings? In our own op shop, if they're viable but not quite sellable, clothes, shoes and handbags are popped into three huge white bags hanging in a row. When they number around 12, they're sold by weight to another charity that sends them to people offshore. That's the good bit.

The bad and sad bit is that items like grandma's spine X-rays or a much-loved headless doll or Mr Smith's water bills must end their fate in the deep recesses of the "green file".

It just seems uncharitable to call it a bin.