R JULIE
In these times of austerity and in the knowledge that the most expensive time of the year is fast approaching, I like many others, have been looking for ways to make a bit more money to help tide us over, and, realizing that my cluttered house had begun to make old man Steptoe’s yard look minimalist, I hit upon the idea of turning trash into cash by doing a couple of car boot sales. Seduced by shows like Cash in the Attic I became convinced that not only would I be able to clean up while cleaning up, but that I might also, in the process, spot a valuable artefact nestling amongst someone else’s junk. You will not be surprised, dear reader, to find out I was wrong on both counts …
RWorld
On the day, I dressed warmly in several layers of clothing and a coat that resembled my duvet, with an old bumbag that made me feel like a real market trader.
Being new to the whole car boot thing, I had decided to go with my sister-in-law, a veteran of haggling and car booting, and a woman who knows the ropes. She advised that we attend a local car boot that didn’t require us to get up at four in the morning but to arrive at the more respectable time of ten o’clock ready for the opening time of eleven. We piled my bags into her car, which was already brimming with what looked suspiciously like every present I have ever given my brother and every member of his family, and once she’d carefully checked that I’d followed her instructions to the letter (‘sweets?’ ‘check’, ‘change’ ‘check’, ‘pasting table’ ‘er, hang on, I’ll just go and get it’) we set off.
We arrived at the field just before the designated arrival time of ten, to find a seething hotbed of frantic activity. It was as though we’d been told the wrong time to a party, thinking we were arriving to help set out the nibbles but actually entering to find it in full swing. Clearly car booters don’t worry about times and arrive at four in the morning no matter what the official start time. Still, undeterred, we were shown to a spare place (on the far side of the throng, like unwanted gatecrashers) and jumped out of the car ready to trade.
We were instantly surrounded by people asking whether we were selling jewellery, mobile phones or DVDs. I felt like an aid worker bringing food to starving disaster victims. ‘No, none of those,’ I shouted excitedly, ‘but lots of other interesting things.’ They weren’t interested, and I was left with only a crossdresser looking for large spangly jumpers and a cross sister-in-law reminding me that we hadn’t actually started unloading yet so it would be a good idea for me to concentrate.
It didn’t take long for me to learn the hard truth about car booting. It’s the law of the jungle with native cunning and guile overcoming my attempts to get a reasonable price for my (almost new) items at every turn. I thought that selling every piece of clothing for just a
62 R MAGAZINE
With Julie Teckman
pound would keep things simple and make money (this must be what it was like to launch a pound shop, I innocently thought). And it would have been great, had I managed to sell anything for a pound. I had people asking me for my best price, people wanting money off for bulk buys and one woman who gave me three ten pence pieces whilst nodding sagely at me as if to say ‘keep the change’!
At one point, a large lady attempted to pull size 10 leggings up her leg and offered me £1.50 for three pairs. Jaded by the whole effort of trying to get a pound an item, I said, ‘Done!’ only to hear a voice by my side mutter, ‘Yeah, you have been, she’s taken them to her own stall to sell for £1.50 each…’
Meanwhile my sister-in-law was having no such nonsense. I could hear her haggling with customers who were desperate to give her a pound for ornaments for which she was asking a fiver. She wouldn’t be budged maintaining that she’d rather not sell an item than sell it lower than she planned.
After a couple of hours we needed a break. My sister-in-law offered to get us a burger and a coffee, leaving me in charge. She was gone for about ten minutes during which time I sold several of her things and proudly presented her with her money when she returned. ‘What did you sell?’ she asked. ‘Some of the baby clothes and a plate.’ ‘And how much did
you get for the plate?’ she asked quietly, looking at the coins in her hand. ‘A pound,’ I answered, ‘the lady said it had a crack.’ There was a silence. ‘I meant to mention before I went,’ she went on, ‘the plate was one of two things that were collectables.’ ‘And the other thing?’ I asked quickly, keen to make amends for my mistake. ‘The picture on the floor’ she replied, looking around keenly. ‘The one that appears to have been stolen while I was away…’
All in all, I made twenty-five pounds and spent fifteen of them on food and rubbish. I saw a lot of interesting people and was eventually forgiven by my sister-in-law but only once I promised never to do a car boot sale with her again.
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