“There is a car boot/thrift/boys scout/community/church/school/carpark sale/MARKET next Sunday at Sell-Your-Soul-Town. Want to have a stall with me?” Doom-doom.
You recognise this fertile hunger. The anticipation and mystified optimism of an enriching ‘community’ experience, extra cash for an extended weekend soiree and the reminiscent endless sugar rush of floss. Fairy. You will not be encouraged.
“It’s only $25 for a site and a trestle. I have a swag of last season clothes we could sell. Let us make a day of it!”
And off ‘said friend’ skips into the wholehearted optimistic land of scurrying through misshapen and broken belongings with rainbow-dollar-sign-eyes. Much like the twinkle of the secret bell at the local seedy pawn brokers that announces your arrival to the hungered beast…you are perfectly owned. Or sold. Which ever way, limbo’d.
Despite a few casual twitches, your next week passes smoothly. No more talk of market. The word catches in your throat at times like Nanna’s lose knitting, but you click your heels at this idea being lost in the land of ‘twas brilliant’. Your Sunday morning sleep-in-poached egg-coffee-magazine-high- ritual remains gleefully intact. Safely pocketed and singing in your conscience.
By Saturday you are confident. You even indulge in picking through other people’s worn wares at the local market on the corner. You purchase a beaker clearly lost from year 10 science class, and a brown knitted cardigan you plan to patch and re-button with green. Your boyfriend casually plucks through records in the hope that no-one before him has found the Ice T “Gotta Lotta Love” LP that he regrets leaving behind the week prior.
Your tongue dances with lemon sorbet shock and you leave with spent boyfriend, new-old details and caramel roasted peanuts that promise to make you sick with sweet. Weekend contentment. Tick!
And Sunday morning. Knock. Tap. Bash. Knock. Fark!
Will be continued...
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