There is a particular kind of brain that never really switches off. It is the kind that is constantly cataloguing, calculating, and connecting dots, even when it is supposed to be doing something else entirely.
I have that brain. And honestly? I wouldn't trade it for the world—even when it gets me into trouble.
The Dentist, the Auction, and the Impossible Choice
Yesterday, I was sitting in the chair at Wits Dental, getting quoted for a crown and a bridge. No medical aid. Just me, the quote, and the quiet horror of what teeth cost when you are running a solo business.
To top it off, I drove home to no electricity. Eighteen-plus hours without power, no cell phone service, no coffee—just cold, wet winter weather and a house that had gone completely dark the day before...
This morning — power finally back on at 9 the night before, the world slowly returning to normal — I opened my laptop to start my day. My partner brought me a cup of coffee and I said, just looking at the auction highlights for today...
Still, I scrolled through them anyway, mentally adding things the shop would love to showcase, because the shop wanted everything... and that is just the reality of running a
The opportunity cost is real. And it never stops.
The Crates, the Customer, and the Brown Paper Roll
Here's the thing about hustling — sometimes the universe rewards you in the most ridiculous, perfectly timed ways.
I'd been trying to sort out proper storage crates for my shop for weeks. Boxes are not ideal — they take up too much space, you can't sort properly, you can't see what's inside. I needed crates. My guy finally had them. R1,300 for the crates and delivery, and I was wincing at the timing.
Then Sunday happened.
A customer had already spent R2,000.00 online for four CorningWare pieces. She drove through from Pretoria to collect. When she arrived, she spotted an unlisted piece I hadn't even put on the site yet — and added another R1,000.00 to her bill without blinking. Then she spotted the brown paper roll I'd picked up at auction the week before — bought it to use for wrapping, completely unglamorous. Her daughter needed it for design school. R300.00
R1,300.00 extra. Unplanned. Unscripted. Just a good eye meeting another good eye.
My crates — and her entire trip — were paid for by a collector who drove through from Pretoria and left with more than she came for. I bought that brown paper roll for myself. But really, a young design student needed it more. And somehow, without any planning at all, it found its way to her.
That's the thing I've come to believe about this work: what you want is also looking for you. The right piece finds the right person. The right customer arrives at the right moment. The universe isn't just working in my favour — it's working in all of our favour, connecting things that were always meant to find each other.
The Eye That Never Stops Learning
People sometimes ask me how I know what to buy. How I spot the good stuff in a pile of junk. How I can look at a shelf of mixed ceramics and walk straight to the one piece worth having.
I've walked the same market as other sellers — people who've been doing this for years — and bumped into them on the way out. "What did you find today?" I ask. "Nah, not much," they say. And I'm standing there with a haul that would make your eyes water, from the exact same stalls they walked past an hour before me.
It's not luck. It's not even just experience. It's being in the zone.
When I'm at a market, something shifts. The noise fades out. I'm not browsing — I'm reading. Every shelf, every pile, every box of mixed bits tells me something. My hands know before my brain does. I'll pick something up and already be turning it over to find the mark before I've consciously decided to look.
But it's not just the eye. It's the relationships. The sellers who know me, who put things aside because they know I'll appreciate them. Who call me when something comes in that "has my name on it." That trust takes time to build — and it's worth more than any single find.
And then there's the research. Every piece I list gets properly investigated — the maker, the era, the pattern, the factory marks. I write it all up in the "Did You Know" section on each listing. But here's what I didn't expect: that research loop doesn't just inform the buyer. It sharpens me.
Every deep-dive into Arabia Finland makes me faster at spotting Arabia Finland. Every hour spent learning the Denby glaze colours means I can identify a Denby piece across a crowded table in three seconds flat. Every maker's mark I've memorised is a filter that runs automatically now, sorting treasure from noise before I've even consciously registered what I'm looking at.
The listings are my training programme. The customers get the history. I get the education. Everyone wins.
What I Actually Built Here
I've been selling vintage for two years. The eye, the sourcing, the relationships — that part isn't new. What is new is this: last month, I built a website.
Not hired someone to build a website. Built it. Myself. From scratch.
The SEO. The collection architecture. The email automations. The Google integrations. The social media strategy. I am still learning, still refining, still figuring things out — and I do it every single day, usually before the rest of the world has had their first coffee.
If you hired someone to build what I've built, you'd be looking at R60,000 minimum. Probably more, once you factor in the ongoing strategy and the technical maintenance. I did it because I believed in what I was curating, and because I refused to let the technical side be the thing that stopped me.
The vault — my private storage space, packed to the rafters, items I have to physically move just to get through the door — that's where it all starts. Chaotic, yes. But inside that chaos is a Holmegaard votive in perfect amethyst. A set of Arabia Finland Anemone cups that made it all the way from Helsinki. A piece of studio pottery thrown by a maker whose name I spent three weeks tracking down.
They were all someone's treasure once.
The Brain That Never Shuts Off
I won't pretend it's always easy. The teeth vs. treasures calculation is real. The crate budget is real. The auction FOMO is very, very real.
But so is the Sunday customer who drives from Pretoria and leaves with more than she came for — and whose unexpected extras paid for my crates, to the rand. So is the moment a piece finds its person — when someone messages me to say it's perfect, it's exactly what they were looking for, it's going on the mantelpiece where it belongs.
That's why the brain doesn't switch off. Because this is the work. And the work, somehow, always connects.
— Ina Lubbe, Purveyor of Vintage Treasure
Shift2ThriftVintage • Est. 2024 • Curated Vintage, South Africa • shift2thriftvintage.co.za