Apologies about the lack of new posts for the past few days, I’ve been bonkers busy. Spent the whole of Saturday emptying out the understairs cupboard (the proto-mancave, if you will) and Sunday was spent doing one of those godless acts, the car boot sale. I made myself pinky swear to keep the blog up to date, so here comes a self-indulgent rant about my day.
But in the meantime, and in an effort to keep my blog looking pretty, here’s a photo of Gem with all my unwanted merchandise.
So, Sunday morning, 4am.
After a night of no sleep, because my brain refuses to sleep if it knows it need sleep because it’s a fucking idiot, we set off from home to Dewsbury Rams rugby stadium car park to queue for half an hour behind people who woke up an hour before us. before parking up and spending yet another half hour unloading the car and filling our increasingly flimsy table with our unwanted and disposable goodies.
This first half hour is when the most money gets made, as the other stall owners creep in with their torches, buying all your good stuff to sell on their stalls for a few quid more than you asked for. You also get 8-10 different creepy foreigners approaching you, leaning into your car and mumbling DoYouHasMobbilPhoonOrLabtopComputors until you scream at them.
The next two hours pass relatively quickly, as folk approach the stall, pick up an item, shake it, ask what it is, then walk away. A few items sell, but nobody wants to pay more than £2 for anything. The stallholder next to us, selling allegedly authentic bottles of perfume gets furious when folk want to pay her 14p for her fancy wares that she wants £20 for.
The advantage of getting up at 4am is that nobody calls you a fat hideous troll for having a greasy cheeseburger at 7:30, although for the sake of my internal body clock (i.e. my bowel’s schedule) I held off getting a portion of chips until 10am.
As well as the generally confused item touchers, there are a few other types of regular car booter interfering with your nice sit down on your car’s uncomfortable shelf between the bumper and the boot.
– The tidy-upper.
Usually a crazy woman, stands next to the clothes rack on your stall, neatly folding your clothes before walking away and tutting.
– The funny story man.
Clearly a lonely geek, this man finds something on your stall, and can’t resist telling you about the time their Uncle Baz took them to the funfair at the Lancaster festival in 1987, and how he fell into a bush and had to have a tetanus shot and does he want to buy this DVD of Puss In Boots, no thanks bye.
I think maybe they like a captive audience, and their previous victim starved to death in the oubliette.
– The furious battery man.
Yes, I’m selling an item that needs batteries.
No, I didn’t buy batteries to put in the item that you want to buy for 50p.
Because batteries cost more than 50p.
Stop looking at me like that, you’re scaring me.
Oh, there are more, but in case you didn’t notice I’m very tired, and my fingers are aching. So, all in all the car boot was a relative success, despite the exorbitant pitch fees and Gem’s insistence on stopping on the way home at Starbucks to drink the most expensive coffee this side of a latte laced with prize bull semen.
Total profit – £75
Starbucks – £20
Petrol to drive backwards and forwards – £10
TOTAL ACTUAL PROFIT – £45.
Hours spent on site (not including preparation time on Saturday) – 4am-12pm, 8 hours.
Hourly wage earned – £5.63
Split between 2, me and Gem – £2.81 each per hour.
Yeah, this is instead of a lie-in. Ugh.
I’m off to snooze now.