“Do” as in
to sell things, rather than “do” as in to turn up with a sawn-off shotgun and
steal the vast array of tat on offer.
If you don’t
know Bridlington, It’s like any other seaside town in England. It was once probably
a nice place, but now resembles Nagasaki in 1945.
Sellers must
arrive early, which we did. As we pulled into an available spot, a woman next
to us gave us a look as if we’d pulled up in a car which was made of shit and crashed
it into the rail of clothes she had for sale. She thought we were obscuring her
wares with the vehicle. How dare we park there?
Grumpy
neighbours aside, the set up went smoothly. Using a wallpaper-pasting table, as
is de rigueur at such events, we displayed our unwanted trinkets.
Sales were
few and far between, although I did flog a job lot of punk CDs to a man who looked
old enough to be Johnny Rotten’s dad for a tenner.
People
milled around and were happier to talk than buy.
Sample conversation:
Potential customer:
“Good morning. Regulation weather-based small talk.”
Me: “Balls
to the sun, buy our stuff.”
Potential
customer: “Nice stuff that I’m not interested in. Thinly-veiled comment about
my ill-health.”
Me: “Buy it!”
Potential
customer: “Remark about what I intend to do later.”
Me: “BUY!”
Potential
customer: “Thanks. Bye”
This went on
for some time.
A few things
sold, although for much less than we were asking. One man was willing to pay £5
for a bathroom cabinet, but claimed to only have £4 in change at the last
minute. He was let off as his wife bought a couple of things no one in their
right mind would want for £1.
Once the sea
of web-footed caravan enthusiasts had receded, it was time to pack the
remaining crap away for a future boot sale.
We made £31
clear profit, which equates to an hourly wage of just over £3 for each of us.
Not really a potential career.
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