Last weekend saw my first foray into the seedy underbelly of commercial enterprise. I had a lot of stuff to get rid of, and I figured that a car boot sale would be the best place to offload it. My girls would learn the subtle art of bartering, and I would hopefully be able to earn a bit of spare cash to support my fiendishly expensive crack habit.

Rosie and Alice got some books together and managed to dig out from under Alice's bed a rather seedy collection of Bratz dolls. Unfortunately, the doll's feet didn't exactly fit their bodies; the sleepover Bratz doll had lost her slippers and now sported a pair of outrageously high platform shoes, which seemed like a recipe for disaster when combined with a mug of Horlicks and a slippery stair carpet. But my girls were undaunted by the thought of flogging their badly dressed Bratz, (or Slutz as I prefer to call them) and the rather sad assortment of plastic oddments which accompanied them. They were thrilled with the prospect of making some extra pocket money, as I'd promised them that they could keep any proceeds made from the sale. And so we set out on our quest for riches, and made our way to a small car park somewhere in Devon, in the fine drizzle of a grey Sunday morning.

My stash was rather unusual in that included three antique fly rods, some antique reels, a collection of framed original French illustrations, and assorted tat that had lain neglected for years in dusty corners of the barn. We found our spot in the car park and began to unload the boot booty. As soon as the reels came out of the box, we were set upon by several men in corduroy trousers, who grappled with each other whilst trying to seize as many of the reels as possible. I sold four reels for £20, which was clearly the bargain of the century, but as a collector of vintage tackle I know what's good, and they weren't that special, so the money seemed adequate. The guy who'd bought the reels then spied a pair of brown leather butcher boots, which he tried to beat me down on, but I held firm. I knew he'd got a good deal on the reels and I wasn't going to let him get away with browbeating me. I told him my price and he offered a few quid less, I said no and he walked away; but I knew he wanted them, and sure enough, he came back a few minutes later and gave me what I'd asked for. It's hard work trying to sell quality merchandise at a car boot sale. If I'd had a few odd plates, some broken toys and a picture of a crying boy, then I'd have cleared my table in no time, but people looked at the set of antlers and the brass Tilley lamp and just wandered away. They clearly thought I was selling a pile of tat, as they walked back past my quality offerings, clutching bags of broken plastic toys and chipped china.

Unsurprisingly, the big hit of the day were the Bratz dolls, and if we'd had a dozen more we'd have been rich. The little girls who came to the table didn't seem to mind that the dolls had inappropriate footwear, they were drawn to them like little moths to a flame, and it was the easiest money my girls have ever made. They spent some of the proceeds enjoying a happy hour on a bouncy castle, and then Rosie, who must have sustained a bump to the head, decided to spend fifty pence of her hard-earned money on a small toy pig, which looked remarkably like the small toy pig that she'd left sitting on her bed at home. A final flurry of interest saw a CD player and tuner go for a paltry £20, and the antlers for a fiver. My purse wasn't exactly bulging, but it was an interesting experience, and now Rosie and Alice are demanding that we go again, but I'm not sure if I can face it.

I took the profits and went straight to a wondrous Aladdin's cave called Trago Mills. It a 'pile 'em high, sell 'em cheap' place, but you can get some fantastic bargains if you know what you're looking for. I got a bit carried away with having spare cash in my purse, and walked out of the shop with an axe, 15 stainless steel solar powered garden lamps, an olive wood pestle and mortar, ear plugs, a knife block, two lavender plants, some raspberry canes and curtain poles for my lovely new drapes. I don't know what the other shoppers thought of my curious selection of items, but I always look at the people who have spent all day in the shop, only to come away with a bag of Haribo sweets and a cruet set, and think, 'Why didn't you buy more?

It was sunny and warm when I got home, and I decided it was a good time to pick up a pair of gateposts from the local saw mill. I'd been before, just to see what they had, and had enjoyed a lovely chat with the owner's father, a rather flirtatious old gentleman who was looking after the place for his son. He'd left his lunch of cold sausages in order to talk me through the various gates on offer, and seemed genuinely sad that I wouldn't be returning before he had to hand the place back to his son. Being an opportunistic kind of girl, I was curious to see what his son looked like, and yesterday, when I pulled my car into the lumber yard, I had high hopes that he would be just as charming as his dad.

There was no sign of life, so I went into the office, and, on finding it empty, went down to the workshop, only to hear a sharp rapping coming from the office window. It was the owner, who was clearly involved in some lengthy calculations and didn't want to be disturbed. My sad little fantasy about coming face to face with a ruddy-cheeked Adonis in a checked shirt, all muscular forearms and tousled hair, suddenly evaporated when he stepped into view. The man, who we'll call Simon, was tall, stooping and looked not unlike an aristocratic and rather unkempt beaver. I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed. On the journey over I'd imagined our eyes meeting across a hunting gate, our hands brushing together as we lifted the posts into my car, and a phone number being hurriedly scribbled onto the wood whilst my back was turned.

But Simon was too distracted with his sums for any of that nonsense. Once we'd sorted out my gateposts, I prepared to pay the man his money, which involved him telling me a price, and then adding VAT, and working out the total with his trusty calculator. But in order for him to calculate anything, he had to repeat each and every figure as he wrote it down. It was like I wasn't there; his brain had seamlessly switched into addition mode and was hard-wired to his mouth. As he tapped out the figures, he spoke each of the numbers out loud, and I had to fight the urge to get him to quote me for another dozen posts, just to see if he'd continue. It was a bit like Countdown, when Carol Vorderman has to do complicated sums..'I'll have a post Simon, and another post, and a gate, and another post, and five stakes from the big pile, and three from the small pile...'

He seemed relieved when I drove away, I think because he could get back to his log pile and things that were real to him. When you work with wood, you don't need to do a lot of talking, and all the men I've ever know who work with wood for a living have been quiet and taciturn. I think it might be something to do with having once seen something nasty in the woodshed, but I'm not entirely sure.

I got my posts home and now they're on my lane, awaiting the arrival of my trusty workman, Colin. He's already forgotten about the job, and even though I joked at the time about stapling the quote for the work to his forehead, he's lost the piece of paper it was written on. I know I'll have to pester him with repeated 'phone calls until he and his wife are so worn down that they agree to send some men to do the job, but I know Colin is a genial fellow and that it'll be worth the wait.

My new raspberry canes are now planted, along with the lavender plants, and the brief sun of yesterday has once again been replaced by grey clouds and rain. Spring is a wonderful time in my garden, and I love to spend the day pottering around, pruning, pulling brambles and listening to the birds. Being out in the garden is a spiritual experience for me. I know many people feel disloyal about gardening without their partner, because communing with nature makes you feel happy and content. Earth and grass and sunlight and birdsong are all things that you touch and smell, and feel. When your senses are stimulated by nature, your soul is illuminated, and that is something to be treasured. Gardening is a kind of meditation, which can bring you closer to the person you've lost. It's not disloyal to feel happiness about being outside; it part of recovery and it's good for the soul. So this weekend, if you're lucky enough to have a garden, go out and feel the sun on your face, feel the earth in your fingertips, and feel alive again.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.