Sunday morning challenge
The alarm clock shattered the peace of the bedroom. Alan slowly opened his eyes, then screwed them up to accustom them to the daylight that was filtering through the slight gap at the top of the curtains. He threw back the duvet, hit the top of the ringing clock and jumped out of bed. Walking across to the window he opened the curtains wide and sunshine streamed into the room.
"Wake up." He turned round and spoke to his wife, Carol, who was still asleep. "It's a lovely morning, so lets get going."
The other half of the duvet moved and Carol let out a waking groan and stretched her arms.
"Do you have to shout?" she complained. "What time is it?
"Five o'clock."
Carol groaned and pulled the duvet up over her head.
"Leave me alone." Her voice was muffled by the feather quilt. She desperately wanted to stay where she was, but she knew Alan would have none of it. "I want to stay here. You go on your own."
"You must be joking." Alan laughed and dashed across the room and pulled the duvet off his grumbling wife. "Time to get up. It was your idea. We've got a boot fair to go to."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"At least it's a nice morning," said Alan as he locked the front door. "There should be plenty of people there today."
"I hope so," replied Carol. "I'm not getting up at this time of the morning for nothing."
Carol walked down the drive and stood on the pavement while Alan opened the garage door. He then quickly reversed the estate car out onto the road. It was brim full of every last piece of bric-a-brac that Carol and Alan had anguished over selling, but they had been ruthless.
For the last two days they had scoured the house looking for anything remotely saleable. It seemed a perfect opportunity to get rid of some of the rather tasteless wedding presents that they had been given and never used.
"I'm sure we'll sell these," Carol had said, holding up a set of silver plated champagne whisks, and laughing. "They are all the rage around here at the moment."
"You can't sell them," Alan had protested. "My cousin Sarah bought us those."
"Typical," Carol had replied. "Anything totally tasteless and useless is bound to come from her." So without further ado they had been placed in one of the many boxes along with the bits of china that there was no longer a full set of; the basins and bowls that Carol seemed to have a glut of; books that had been read and were now just gathering dust and Alan's records.
Alan had worked for several years as a DJ in a local pub. In fact it was there that he had first met Carol. He had spent a small fortune on records over the years, keeping up to date with all the chart toppers and the latest trends in dance music. When the pub had changed hands several months ago, Alan had been secretly relieved when he learned that the new landlord had plans to turn the back room, where he ran his discos, into a theatre. He'd been doing it for eight years and so he'd looked forward to having more time at home, even though he would miss the money. There had been many wet, cold nights when he had returned from work and the last thing he wanted to do was to go out again. But that was no longer a problem. Carol had come up with the idea of doing a boot fair and so it seemed an ideal opportunity to turn his records into cash.
He leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door for Carol. Then they set off to find Chippings Field, 2 miles the other side of town.
As they got nearer to the venue, they were directed by orange fluorescent signs which seemed to have been pinned on every tree and tied around every lamp post available. 'Boot Fair this way' they read. Alan followed the signs and suddenly found himself at the end of a very long queue of cars and vans. People were out of their vehicles talking to others through open car windows.
"Look at the length of this queue," Carol complained. "We'll be here for ages." Then as if by magic a signal seemed to go up amongst all the drivers. They all rushed back to their vehicles and turned their engines on. Within minutes the queue snaked its way down the road.
They quickly arrived at the gate and paid the man in the fluorescent yellow jacket who was collecting the entrance fees.
"Ten pounds please," he said. "Follow the signs and when you get to the other end of the field someone will show you where to park up."
Alan was soon being directed by a number of people with walkie talkie radios and wearing similar yellow jackets to the man on the gate.
When they were finally allocated a pitch, Alan switched the engine off and both him and Carol sprung into action. "Get the tables out first," he said. "They are only light and while you are doing that I'll start unloading the bags and unpacking them."
Carol did as he suggested and Alan started to empty the boot. When Carol had assembled the tables she went to the back of the car to get more bags and was startled to find a young man opening one of the holdalls and examining the contents.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Have you got any war memorabilia?" the young man, who was not in the least bit surprised, enquired.
"No, sorry." she replied. "Records, plants, books, bric-a-brac, but no war memorabilia."
The disgruntled young man walked along to the next car and Carol watched him repeat the performance.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Business was slow to start with but seemed to improve as the morning progressed. The nice weather had obviously encouraged people to visit the boot fair and soon Chippings Field was full of people, pushing prams, walking dogs or generally just milling around with strange objects under their arms or protruding out of carrier bags. Carol was encouraged by the interest people were showing in their stall. Several weeks earlier she had filled thirty plant pots with Herb seedlings and the whole lot had been snapped up within an hour of her arrival. Other things, which she was glad to see the back of, had been hailed as long searched for treasures by a variety of people. Even the champagne whisks had been bought by a man who looked like he'd never tasted champagne in his life.
There were lulls in business and during these times they both grasped the opportunity to have a cup of coffee and a cigarette. They were sitting relaxing during one of these such lulls when a young man, wearing jeans and an Iron Maiden T-shirt walked up to their stall and started flicking through Alan's records. He was there for quite a while, lifting the twelve inch singles, which Alan had used at the disco, out of the crates, then removing them from their covers and holding them up to the light to check their quality.
He finally held up a handful of them and said to Alan, "How much are your twelve inch singles, mate?"
"Fifty pence each," replied Alan, who looked on them as dead money and just wanted rid of them. "How many have you got?"
"Fourteen," the young man said.
"That'll be seven pounds, please. Do you want a carrier bag?"
"Here's your money," said the young man, passing a five pound note and four fifty pence pieces across the table to Alan. "I'm OK for a bag, thanks," and put the records in a holdall which he was carrying. "You don't know what you're doing with these records, do you?" he said to Alan who was taken aback by what seemed like a verbal attack.
"What do you mean?" Alan stuttered. "There's nothing wrong with those records. I can promise you." He didn't know what to say.
"There's nothing wrong with them," said the young man, "but you're ripping yourself off. I've just bought these records for 50p each and I know for a fact that at least four of them are worth a tenner. You should get your prices right before you sell them." With that he picked up his holdall and walked off, smiling.
Alan's initial thoughts were that he was happy to be rid of the records. They had earned money for him and he knew he would never play them again. Carol, on the other hand was irritated that he had not thought about their true value. She decided that if they were going to do more boot fairs she would have to do something about it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"That was brilliant," Carol said as she carried two cups of tea into the lounge. She was still brimming with enthusiasm for the past six hours which they had both spent. "We'll unload what's left after we've had this. I never thought it would be so much fun. I made eighty four pounds just selling rubbish. People will buy anything, thank God. How did you do?"
"I did OK," Alan answered, "but when I think of what that bloke said to me, it makes me wonder if I could have done even better. It'll not happen again."
"That's right," said Carol, determinedly. "It won't."
They'd discussed the conversation between Alan and the young man on their way home. Alan was prepared to put it down to experience, but Carol wasn't having any of it. He'd been caught out but she was determined to do something about it.
"Can we do another next week?" Carol asked. She felt addicted to the hustle and bustle of the whole situation.
"That's OK with me," answered Alan. "I might have taken sixty six pounds, but I've still got plenty of records left to sell. I took less than half with me today. What about you? Have you got anything left? Or did you manage to sell all your rubbish?"
"I've still got a few things left, but even if I had nothing I'd still go along with you for the fun of it."
"That's rich coming from someone who didn't want to get up this morning," joked Alan.
"Forget that," Carol smiled. "I'll be out of bed before you next time."
"Seeing is believing," Alan answered.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Alan arrived home from work the following day he was taken aback to hear disco music as he opened the front door. He was even more taken aback when he went into the lounge. Carol was sitting reading a book in the middle of a vast amount of his records, which were scattered all over the carpet. She looked up at him and smiled as he walked into the room.
"Hiya," she said. "Guess what I've been doing all afternoon."
"I hate to think," he replied.
"I kept thinking about what that man said to you yesterday, and so this morning I went into town to that large book store in the high street and I bought this." She waved the book which she was holding. "It gives you details of how much records are worth. So what I've done this afternoon is go through the records you were selling and you'd be surprised what I've found. "See that." She was now waving a Pet Shop Boys twelve inch single in her free hand. "You were going to sell that for 50p and according to this book, it's worth fifteen pounds."
"It can't be," replied Alan who was suddenly getting interested in the conversation.
"It is. Honestly. It all goes by the cover, the condition and the serial number. Fifteen pounds. See this one?" She held up an Erasure record. "Because this is in good condition and because it's in this Thomas the Tank Engine cover, it's worth twenty pounds. I've had a whale of a time. I've played them to make sure that they are all OK. Anyway, let's have some supper," changing the subject. "I've been through lots of them and I'll tell you all about them while we eat."
After they had eaten, Carol showed Alan the extracts from the book that convinced him that the prices were correct. Most of his records were run of the mill and not worth much. But he had to admit that there were several which, according to the collectors guide, were worth a lot of money. He was suddenly looking forward to the next boot fair.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
So the following Sunday morning Carol, true to her word, was out of bed before Alan. They had both decided to start out earlier than the week before in an attempt to get a better pitch. The weather was once again, dry and warm and Carol felt that it was going to be a good day.
No sooner had they got their stall set up than business took off. Carol was still amazed at the things which people bought. Things which, at any other time, she would have willingly thrown in the dustbin. She was interested to hear the comments that people made when they discovered the prices of some of the records.
"Stick to the prices I've given you," she instructed Alan. "It will pay off, I promise you."
However, as keen as she had been to make sure that they did not miss out, she could not hide her surprise when a rather inconspicuous looking young lady bought two Human League twelve inch singles for £6 each. She was quick to point out to Alan that she had the correct strategy.
"If people won't pay those prices, don't worry about it. We'll take them home with us and bring them again next time."
At around 10-30 they both sat and ate the sandwiches which Carol had prepared and brought with them. She was sitting enjoying a lull in business when she looked down the row of stalls. Suddenly she jumped up off the stool on which she'd been sitting.
"Leave this to me," she said to Alan and went to the back of the car and produced the bag which she had said earlier, did not need to be unpacked.
Alan looked with curiosity as she quickly produced a record and placed it in one of the boxes.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Never mind. Just watch and learn."
As she said that, Alan noticed that there was someone browsing through the records. The Iron Maiden T-shirt suddenly reminded him of the abuse which he had had thrown at him the previous week.
"Good morning," said Carol, smiling at the unkempt youth. "How are you today?"
"OK," replied the young man, gruffly.
Carol sat back down on the stool and continued with her coffee, but never for a moment did she take her eyes off the potential customer.
"I see you've put your prices up," he complained to Carol, holding up a Dead or Alive record which Carol had correctly priced at £15.
"Well, what you said last week made us think," she answered, "so we looked at the other records at home and hopefully we've priced them correctly."
The young man removed records from the boxes, then carefully examined them before putting them to one side. Other people were calling at the stall showing an interest in Carol's bric-a-brac but she left Alan to deal with them.
"I'll take these," said the youth, and Carol took them from him to tot up the prices.
Although he had chosen several of the cheaper records, she was pleased to see that he had in fact picked five which were more realistically priced.
"That will be £37.50 please," she said, trying to hold back the smile.
The young customer handed over four ten pound notes and Carol gave him his change. He put all the records in his holdall. except one which he held up and waved at Carol. It was a Madonna twelve inch picture disc.
"You still haven't got it right, have you?" he smirked. "This record is worth £15 and I've just paid you a pound."
"I thought you'd got it all worked out," snapped Alan who had been listening intently to the conversation.
Even the young man was taken aback by his reaction.
"Oh, I have got it right," said Carol, with a beaming smile. "It's actually worth £20, but that copy jumps in several places."
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