©Jan Millward, 2018

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The Car Boot Sale.

April 2, 2017

The attic's full to bursting with twenty years of tat,
there are cots and books and teddys and a multicoloured mat.
The ceiling's started cracking and can't take all the strain,
so we're going to do a car boot and hope it doesn't rain.


Dusty cups and saucers we were keeping just in case,
some dresses from the eighties edged all around with lace.
A tent still looking muddy from a holiday in Wales,
a lonely looking picture that was bought in last years sales.


A forgotten ancient camera and a box of old toy cars.
Buttons, zips and ribbons arrayed in large sweet jars.
A suitcase full of  videos from nineteen ninety six,
an unused Christmas present and a box of magic tricks.


A car crammed full of treasures that we no longer need,
we're preparing for the battle and the usual stampede.
We've packed some sticky labels and some money in a float,
a flask full of hot coffee and some sun cream and a coat.


We set off bright and early and we set up our quirky stall,
we've got a folding table for the good stuff in our haul.
The field is filling quickly with cars and vans and trucks,
with folk hoping for a bargain and a little bit of luck.


There are people selling ice creams and others selling chips,
next to the stall with handcuffs, fluffy dice and kinky whips.
There are also lots of dealers who scour the stalls for treasure,
 but they want it all for ten pence and a bag just for good measure.


And then you get the people who like the shabby chic,
and the ones who sell the same stuff at the same place every week.
There are old men with their car full of ancient hand made tools
and others who are looking for priceless pearls and jewels.


Mothers with their push chairs seek clothes to fit their kids,
and others buy up jam jars with an assorted box of lids.
A butcher talks of bargains if you buy two bags of steaks
and a dodgy looking dealer peddles drills and garden rakes.


A kid knocks at our ankles with a model of a plane,
and another screams in terror at a clown without a name.
There are cakes in plastic wrappers slowly melting in the sun,
an expensive bouncy castle full of children having fun.


The folk buy up their bargains and look like a trail of ants
with chairs and hats and tables and a few tomato plants.
And we haggle with the prices so we all get a good deal
and keep a watch for those who have only come to steal.


And when it is all done we pack up what is left  over
and we count up all our pennies and feel like we're in clover
and we go home quite exhausted and pour out a glass of wine
we've had a massive clear out and now feel quite divine!
Jan Millward©

 

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