FEATURE
Horses for Courses I
© LUCIA FOSTER-FOUND 2021
WWW.LUCIAFOSTERFOUND.COM
n lockdown, the spare room had quietly morphed into the store room. With the annual retreat indoors for the darker, colder months under way, she decided it was time for a de-clutter. It was good for the psyche - any number of books and programmes said so. She’d sell some bits on social media; it was simple and fun. Allegedly. And it was simple. A few photos, a couple of sentences and ‘bingo’. Or rather ‘ping-go’; her phone immediately made an entirely new sound and a message from someone appeared. “Is this still available?” She typed feverishly in reply “Yes it is” and excitedly awaited a response. Nothing.. A short while later.. Ping. “Is this still available?” Same question, different item, different someone. Again she replied in the affirmative and “Would you take £20?” came the swift rejoinder. It was a bit less than she’d listed it for. And whoever it was hadn’t yet clapped eyes on it, but, well, she did want it gone.. “Yes, OK” she messaged and waited. And waited. Internet tumbleweed.. Over the next week, various enquiries ensued. Some got as far as “Please give your full address and postcode”. One even arranged a time to collect something and asked for her mobile number. She waited about. They never turned up. “It is simple, but I’m not feeling the fun” she complained to Himself. He shrugged his shoulders. “P’raps it’s a case of horses for courses. Personally, I’m in favour of a good old car boot sale for a good old clear out. People come, they look, they buy stuff. Or they don’t.. Very black and white.” Good point, well made. So Sunday morning found them in a chilly, dewy field before the sun had even risen. The last car boot of the season. With a flask of hot coffee and some sustaining bacon sandwiches, they parked and Himself opened the tailgate. A horde emerged from the gloom, brandishing torches and pushing forward, hands in the boxes, peering into the bags. “Got any records mate?” “Old tools?” “Anything military?” “Designer labels?” Himself was trying to fend off the arms reaching past him, whilst answering their questions: “Wait a minute… I’ll have a look… Yes, I
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think so…. No… Now put that back…. STOP!!!!” Himself finally lost it. Sheepishly, the chastised horde rediscovered their manners, retreated to a safe distance and waited whilst he put up a table and she unpacked some boxes. The morning dragged on and not without incident. Two dealers fought over an old teddy bear; a black eye was given. A couple of things were pinched. Money changed hands – usually less than they’d asked for and no-one had the correct change or their own bags. There was also some slight confusion over Himself’s favourite camping chair: “How much is the chair mate?” “The chair I’m sitting on?” “Yes.” “It’s not for sale.” “Why not?” “Because I’m sitting on it…?” There were mutterings as the chap wandered off. But Himself, a veteran of many a boot sale had come prepared for most eventualities and was largely un-phased. And undeniably, the car was going to be pretty empty going home. She’d just waved goodbye to a large mirror, when her phone pinged. The now-familiar message “Is this still available?” appeared. Coincidentally, it was for the self-same mirror, but before she could respond with a ‘No’, the virtual clamouring came thick and fast. “Will you take £15?” “What’s your postcode.” “Give me your mobile.” “Can I collect tomorrow?” Panicking, she opened the app and swiftly marked it as ‘SOLD’. By midday they’d sold a lot and had enough. The coffee and sandwiches were a distant memory and the footfall had tailed off. It didn’t take long to pack up and leave with their jar of loot. “Go back via the recycling centre shall we?” Himself raised his eyebrows and glanced sideways at her. She nodded wearily. But one thing made it home with them; a small reproduction chest of drawers, much too nice to dump. Although she’d reduced the price from a score, to a tenner, to a fiver, there’d been no takers at the car boot. Her sales banter of “would look great if you chalk paint it” cut no mustard. She gave it one last chance on the internet. That afternoon a lady messaged her who did not beat her down on price. Who offered her own mobile number and arranged a time to collect. Who arrived promptly, declared herself delighted and paid £25 with the correct notes. In response to Himself’s questioning look as she returned indoors, she said. “You’re right. Different selling arenas suit different things.” She waved the cash triumphantly. “It really is a question of horses for courses. I sold it for a pony!”
