THE SECOND CHANCE STORE: Pg # 17-20   To the ignorant, all charity shops are the same.   The particular smell of softening biscuits, yellowing paperbacks and aged storage heaters turned up slightly too high. The distant sound of Steve Wright in the Afternoon crackling through a portable stereo. The racks, a little too close together for comfortable browsing, laden with items at once both too old and too new to be fashionable. A bookshelf of indeterminate filing system that will reliably contain several copies of Shantaram, The Dukan Diet, and Bridget Jones’s Diary. A glimpse through an open door into a stockroom beyond, filled with bin bags, half- drunk cups of tea, and the theatrical hiss of a steaming machine.   And behind the counter, a kindly soul whose job is to scrutinize you. A generous person who has given up their time for the benefit of those less fortunate, who will probably rifle through your donations after you’ve gone and laugh at how gross they all are. An angel on earth, who will nonetheless hold up your ill- judged holiday shorts from 2009 while shrieking, “Cor, Brenda, get a load of these!”   And they’re allowed to, because…