A grubby hand punches through the open window of my musty-smelling estate demanding money; his arm hairs tickle my nose and my eye follows his pointed finger along a muddy track to a youth wearing an oversized radioactive green hi-viz gillet. The youth beckons me onwards, stopping me with a Native American How, indicating my trading spot for the next four hours.
Mourning my Sunday paper lie-in, I unload a horde of essential-at-the-time junk onto the dewy grass and fight with the bent legs of my dad’s saggy pasting table to display my dusty bargains. Professional car-booters rootle through my unwanted chattels with black-Friday style abandon, firing questions at me like a Guantanamo Bay interrogation:
Yes, and I’ve put them in a special box along with the Faberge Egg over there, marked MUG.
‘How much for Alanis Morrisette, luv?’
‘CD’s? 50p.... luv.’ I say, getting the hang of the lingo.
Rummaging around in his jeans pocket he places a groinally heated coin into the palm of my hand which I throw like a burning ember into my cash tin.
A woman grinds the fabric of a Next suit my husband bought for a christening between her nicotine-stained fingers, sniffing the length of the trousers like a lover kissing a woman’s arm.
‘It’s only been worn once,’ I offer, '£3?'
'50p? It's for my son, for court. It might not fit and I don't want to take the risk.'
'£2? You can't get much for two quid these days.'
'Sorry luv, 50p's me limit, its the risk...'.
'Yes, you said. Fine. Far be it from me to deny your son a decent outfit to wear in court. What's he done?'
'Nothing luv, he's the brief!’
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