The Car Boot Sale

By Patrick Vickery

Picture this, rural life at its best, a Car Boot sale, selling things that are barely things, Saturday morning, Edderton Village Hall, a jolly occasion to be had by all, a thingle thangle of a dingle dangle affair.

We were selling plants, chasing the pound, hunting the punt, when we happened across a batch of fruit scones in the kitchen: 50p for a fruit scone and a mug of tea. What a bargain, a tasty fruit scone with texture just right baked by some good lady or gent of the district. I put my plate down, my fruit scone barely touched, morsel lightly nibbled, when a glaikit man of shlubby demeanour embracing a clutch of ornamental ashtrays and a Sing-Along CD approached the plant table.

“How much?” he queried, jabbing my fruit scone with his cumbersome finger.

“It’s a fruit scone, lightly nibbled, not for sale,” I replied, eyeing the newly formed indentation in horror. How could I eat that now?

“Wheesht,” he rippled, “a fruit scone lightly nibbled, you shouldnae be selling a fruit scone lightly nibbled.” And with that he departed in search of a non-nibbled variety.

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