At the Inverness car boot sale
Easyjet, Amsterdam to Edinburgh. We pick up the Thrify rent-a-Ford-Transit-van at the Quality Inn just outside Edinburgh airport. The plan is firstly, to visit IKEA to buy furniture for Ratsmagic, Linda's holiday cottage in Aviemore. Secondly, to clear out her Edinburgh flat to prepare it for renting. Thirdly, to put the IKEA furniture into Ratsmagic and take the old furniture, together with the stuff from Edinburgh, to a still-to-be-determined car boot sale. We arrived on Friday at midday and had to leave on Tuesday morning. It was a scramble and it would have run like clockwork if we hadn't arrived at Aviemore to find water leaking through the house. So add to that: Fourthly, find a local plumber to fix leaking pipe.
I was determined to break the white-van-man stereotype by being courteous to pedestrians and other road users, but we soon found ourselves eating fish and chips out of newspaper while parked, so bang went that theory. Although Linda couldn't believe how much stuff she had accumulated in Edinburgh, the first phase of the operation went smoothly. After putting up curtains, buying blinds, painting here and there, and generally tidying up we left on Saturday evening. As the sun set we had a beautiful drive up to Aviemore through the Highlands, arriving at nine. We spent a couple of hours unloading and reloading and at about midnight we had a van full of stuff ready for the Inverness car boot sale starting at seven the following morning.
We got to the sale car-park in Inverness at about seven-thirty and are directed to a parking space. As soon as we open the back door of the van we have people peering inside asking us 'how much for this?' 'how much for that?'. We're not really ready for full-on selling. We thought we might not even sell anything. Our aim was to try and make it to a hundred pounds. A man is interested in the desk. I tell him it's 45 pounds, he offers 40 and I accept. Another man, looking at the table, shakes his head in disbelief, 'dear me' he mutters. Maybe I should have asked more? Anyway, we're in full swing now. The money is rolling in: ten pounds for the oil lamp, a fiver for the brass cake stand. I cut the price for the knackered old chairs: a fiver for three chairs. The man in the burger van next door is quick to react. He sends one of his serving staff over with the money. Later in the day I will hear over and over again 'what beautiful chairs', 'so cheap', 'oh they're lovely'. Damn, another mistake. The sewing machine was Linda's grandmother's, missing a few bits but still looking impressive. An amateur collector comes by and asks how much. 15 pounds I say, he offers 10. I hold firm, and he relents.
The books sell well which is a surprise to us both. They are the main draw for people to stop and browse, and at 50p each there are bargains to be had (particularly if you are a vegetarian or a feminist). The old electrical stuff goes: two fruit juicers, two telephones, an extension lead. Sometimes just writing what something is on a label makes a difference, although the garlic roaster doesn't end up with any takers at 50 pence.
At about midday the punters slacken off. The sun is still shining, and our stall is looking decidedly empty. There are a few books left, some lamps, a pair of shoes, cutlery, but nothing much. We pack it all into a box, put it in the back of the van and drive to a pub on the shores of Loch Ness for lunch. There we add up our total. One hundred and seventy two pounds! Within ten minutes the money is spent five times over. After lunch we drop off the table that we sold to someone's house in the middle of nowhere on the road to Fort Augustus. We make it home at three thirty and fall asleep within minutes.
A few times in the next couple of days we meet people who say: 'you sold the desk, oh that was lovely, I would have had that', or 'five pounds for three chairs, do you know how much people pay for chairs?', or 'that desk! I would have loved that desk', or 'oh I'd have given that juicer to my daughter'. We have the impression that we've got rid of the stuff too cheaply. But that, after all, is the point of car boot sales. There be bargains there. If I'd had a penny for everyone who'd said 'oh that's really cheap' but then walked on and not bought aforesaid cheap item I'd probably have about 10 pence.
On Monday morning Linda arranges for a plumber to come and fix the water leak. A broken ball-cock leads to a split copper pipe which needs replacing. The plumber is there for four hours. The bill comes to one hundred a seventy pounds. Ah well, we've got enough for Monday's Gaurdian and a packet of Pork Scratchings.
