Getting The Boot
Spiderman was doomed. His red and blue Spidey-mobile was all out of plastic web-missiles and that, in my book, made him a prime candidate for the car boot sale. The youngest Zedette didn't agree but I sat him down and told him a few hard truths.
"Times are hard, son, " I explained, "and it's either this or we'll have to think about sending you up chimneys again. Now what's it to be?"
He handed me the toy and I chucked it in the big cardboard box alongside a complete set of Dr Seuss books, some least-favourite Disney videos and a very annoying board game called Don't Wake Dad.
So there we were this morning, up like a lark and heading for the charity car boot sale in Milngavie. We had John Fitzsimmons' Greetings Programme blaring in the car to keep us awake. You have to get there early, you see, if you want a decent 'pitch' . As it was, at quarter to eight, there were already thirty or so other sellers in the car park, unloading boxes of household clutter very much like ours. I gave the attendant our £8 entrance fee and we were guided to a bay at the very top of the car park . We put up the garden table and unloaded our wares.
Now, as boot-sale veterans will be aware, this is probably the most stressful point of the day because you are immediately besieged by the early bargain-hunters who circle your car like vultures, hoping to prey on your greed and inexperience. They scoop up armfuls of your stock and offer you "ten quid for the lot". It's a bit like that new telly programme Deal or No Deal. Should you take this offer, or hold out for a better price later in the day? OK, Noel, ask me the question.
We usually take the money. Mainly because we attend these boot sales only once a year and we're keen to get the whole business over and done with as fast as possible. So, after the initial flurry there's usually a quiet period before the ordinary shoppers arrive. This gives you a chance to check out the competition. The two women to our right, for example, were trying to flog all sorts of baby equipment. The woman on the left had about a zillion VHS videos laid out on the tarmac. As the customers started to appear we realised that our marketing strategy was pretty sound. First of all we had individually priced and labelled each item. This means shy shoppers don't have to ask the price. We'd also brought plenty of loose change and an enormous supply of carrier bags. This encourages people to buy more.
Trading was brisk, as they say in the Financial Times, and market conditions were buoyant. The sunshine helped. We'd gone for the low cost, high volume approach and, by eleven o'clock, we'd pocketed about a hundred quid. At that point I slashed prices even further and started calling to passers-by.
"Everything fifty pence...come on now, we don't want to take any of this home with us. Come on Missus, get yourself a bargain".
Mrs Z and the Zedettes just stared at me and then shuffled to one side, pretending they were with someone else. I could see how this could become addictive. It was tempting to rush home, strip the bookshelves and return with more stock. That way lies madness. Before long you'd be selling off things you really need.
"Lets face it, do we really need that kitchen sink? Let's flog those curtains in the lounge, the room looks so much bigger without them".
In fact, just as I was planning my resignation from the Ö÷²¥´óÐã and applying for a stall at , the car park attendant came along and told us that he'd seen marriages fall apart at car boot sales. One couple had started yelling at each other and it had gone from bad to worse. It had ended in divorce, he told us.
I looked at Mrs Z and she looked at me and we both decided to shut up shop.
We'd had a good day. Sold just about everything. Quit while you're ahead.
Of course, we hadn't sold everything. For some reason the Spidey- mobile kept disappearing under the table, or under piles of paperbacks. It was still in the cardboard box when we got home. The Zedettes were delighted.
Curses, Spiderman, I'll get you next time. Just you wait!
