by Hector Mackenzie
HAVE you made your New Year Resolutions yet? In addition to some of the positive ones going (back) on my list (learning Chinese; getting fitter, not fatter; trying to keep up with the kids' homework) I'll probably include something sensible about trying to make the old spondulacks go further. Include it; not necessarily act on it. With energy prices soaring (seen the cost of a litre of diesel recently?), wages struggling to keep pace with the cost of living and the ecomomy in the toilet, it's something bound to be exercising a few other minds in the run-up to 2012 ('twenty-twelve' or 'two thousand and twelve'? For what it's worth, I'm going with the former).
Whatever you call it, it's already been dubbed "the year of sales". (Truth be told I can think of a few soft furnishings' retailers who appear to have one on the go pretty much year round anyway). It's a phrase which will spark a frisson of excitement in some hearts but fills mine with dread. Sure, we all love a bargain. Unless it happens to be the chunky grey cardigan gifted to me by my better half via the Next Boxing Day sale, that is. She sees "trendy", I see "granddad".
There are specific small talk conversations you tend to have this time of year. One is to lament the pre-Christmas/New Year's Day rush to the supermarkets to stock up on shopping. "You'd think the shops were closing for a fortnight and not just the day!" we scoff. I had this very conversation (with a bloke I'd bumped into not two hours earlier during a frenzied "last minute" Christmas Eve stock-up at Morrison's...)
The last sale I physically attended was a car boot sale something I have hitherto avoided like the proverbial plague. It's not a case of being snooty about other people's junk (though much of it is, admittedly, pretty manky). I just feel uncomfortable standing eyeball to eyeball with someone whose surplus-to-requirements wares are spread out within touching distance between us. There's no logic to it: a simple glance tells me all I need to know. I can tell within a split second if there's anything of vague interest. But I always feel so guilty/dismissive just walking on by. I've been known to feign interest in a cracked, stained tea cup in a misplaced attempt to make the stallholder feel better. I know: I need to man up and get in touch with my inner haggler.
This discomfort is perhaps why I tend to steer clear of small, otherwise very interesting looking craft shops: I like to browse unfettered and, crucially, unscrutinised. My honest answer to the polite "Can I help you at all?" would be something along the lines of, "Yes, you can. Bugger off and leave me alone." I'm actually more likely to say, "Do you have this in a 34inch waist?", secretly hoping that they don't.
I've come to regard car boot sales as the purest form of recycling. One woman's junk is another's treasure. Every moment someone is heaving a "Can't-believe-I-got-rid-of-THAT!" sigh of relief while the buyer walks away delighted with their bargain. It's probably why sites like Gumtree are flourishing: however unlikely, someone, somewhere is looking for the crap you're ready to discard...
There's one in Inverness which sees hundreds of boxes of unsold gubbins picked up by Blythswood for resale/resdistribution. That's win-win in any language, isn't it? The people watching potential is priceless and the sense of purpose with which people set up their stalls at these shindigs is stunning.
If we could channel that single-minded energy more productively, I swear we'd solve most of the world's major pressing problems.
The simple laws of the market place are there for all to see: seasoned stallholders shamelessly stalk rival pitches before the doors are opened and snap up anything they're confident of selling on at a profit on their own pitch.
Year of sales? Well, one way or another, it probably will be. Now anyone after a once-worn chunky cardigan?
