Charities get more clothing than they can possibly use, and they get clothing they can’t possibly sell. Of the tons of donations they receive from a caring public, thrift stores manage only a small percentage. The rest is shipped to developing countries such as India or Kenya or Chile or Tunisia, where it competes with developing textile industries in those countries, or is thrown into landfills, or is taken out into fields and burned.

In 2016, Uganda, Tanzania, and Rwanda tried to ban all imports of second-hand clothing, as a way of protecting their textile industries, as a way of keeping North America’s refuse out of their landfills. Almost immediately, the US stepped in and threatened sanctions if anyone tried to close down the free world’s favourite garbage dumps.

I’ve mentioned this to Mimi on a number of occasions, and she agrees that the matter is problematic.

Still, it’s hard to pass up a Dolce & Gabbana organza blouse for $6.50.

I wander through the store trying not to touch anything. All the usual suspects are here. Jeans, tops, purses, belts, hats, children’s clothing and toys, jackets, books. Everything arranged in tight rows with no room to pass.

A cornucopia of First World detritus.

The store is not all that large, but Mimi has vanished. Some thrift stores have dressing rooms. Some have curtains pulled across a dent in the wall. Some force you to hold the article up and guess.

Men’s clothing is at the back of the store. To keep boredom at bay, I flick my way through the T-shirts on the off chance that something catches my eye.

Mimi and I have different ideas about T-shirts. Mimi doesn’t like them. Doesn’t matter the colour or the image. For her, a shirt without a collar and buttons isn’t a shirt.

It’s a paint rag.

For me, a T-shirt is the daily default, provided it’s a black crewneck with no breast pocket.

There are a dozen black T-shirts on the rack. Only three in my size, which makes a decision easier. One shirt says “There’s a 99% Chance I Don’t Care.” Another has a Nike swish symbol, which kills any chance of my ever being caught alive wearing it. The last black shirt has an image of a stylized Indian on a horse racing across the prairies.

I’m holding it up against me, looking for a mirror, when Mimi turns the corner.

“That’s worse than the one you’re wearing,” she says.

“I sort of like it.”

“How about ‘sort of’ putting it back on the rack?”

“Did you find anything?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Mimi has her arm draped with clothing. “I’m still thinking.”

I hold the T-shirt up again. “I could wear it on special days.”

Mimi closes her eyes for a moment. And then she opens them. “Remember that White guy who was selling T-shirts at the Toronto powwow?”