January.
The month of even less money than usual, following all those Christmas purchases from the Middle of Lidl (a whole ham for £24.99? A complete bargain. Until you chuck away 7/8 of said ham in January, and realise the two slices that actually got eaten cost £12.50 each).
Yes, it’s the time to try to recoup some of the money blown on novelty slippers and Betty’s tea-bags.
There’s nothing for it: it’s time to start selling things.
All the more so, as I have a garage full of items that I can’t accommodate in my own house, including some of questionable taste that I was fortunate enough to inherit. A wood-and-wicker table and chairs, for instance. And two dubious amateur oil paintings of sunflowers, which I can definitely advertise as Van Goghs.
I am not a complete novice, having sold two brand-new Velux windows on eBay for 99p in the past. Not to mention a Bosch fridge-freezer for 1p (sic. I almost was).
And so it is with high hopes that I sign up for Facebook Marketplace.
It’s pleasingly straightforward to insert an advertisement for a solid oak dining table and four chairs. I even manage to include some photographs.
I’m so cheered by my technological prowess that I also advertise a dresser, an oak sideboard, said wicker-and-wood table, a king-sized bed, a Miele washing machine, the Van Goghs, and “some decorative twigs in a metal bucket”.
I point out that they are all big and heavy, and need to be collected by two people with a large vehicle.
My iPad starts making noises. People are messaging madly. It is a massive success. I am going to be able to buy all the coats I like in Clarkson’s with the proceeds.
Or maybe not.
For this is where I discover that the Second-Hand Buying Population is divided into various categories.
The Cheeky Ones
These are the ones who say: “Can you deliver the bed to Pickering?” (No, it won’t fit in my Mini, however hard I try). Or “can you post the table to Scarborough?” (Again: no). See also the ones who say: “The Miele looks a bit old, so how about letting me have it for free?”
Though at least they are all up-front. The cheekiest of all are those who load a sideboard into their van, then say: “Oh, I’m so sorry, I know we said £50, but I’ve only got £30. I had three heart attacks last week and I absolutely shouldn’t be CARRYING anything, but I’d better unload it and CARRY it back inside, hadn’t I?”
Sigh.
The Ones Who Get Lost
Collection is from Low Petergate. It’s near the Minster. That’s the big building in the centre of town. No, not the Hospital. You can’t find Low Petergate? That’s because St Peter’s School and Petergate are not the same thing. Yes, I know St Peter’s has a chapel, but that’s not the Minster. Neither is the Purey Cust. No, I don’t know how you are going to get out of the Purey Cust car-park, and I have no idea how or why you got into the gated community in the first place. And so on. Though these people are better than…
The Ones Who Don’t Turn Up
You battle your way across Lendal Bridge at 5pm in order not to miss the collection time of 6pm. No sign. 6.30pm rolls around. Still no sign. You try to ring the Collector. You get their answering machine. You never hear from them again.
The Unrealistic/Optimistic Ones
They are due to collect a washing machine at 5.30pm, and ring at 5.20pm. “We’re just leaving Malton now, so we’ll see you in 15 minutes”.
Or the very slight chap who turns up in a Nissan Micra, to collect a gigantic oak bureau (“needs to be collected by two people with a large van”). “I thought it might fit in my trailer,” he explains. Said trailer is the size of a bag of crisps. “But I’m not going to be able to carry it on my own.”
He suggests returning the following day with a trolley, but I say a friend and a van might be a better bet.
“It would,” he says, “but I asked my friend, and he couldn’t help because his goldfish was going to the dentist”.
Ah well. Who needs money anyway?
Or so I think, as I settle down in my wicker chair for a nice evening staring at my Van Goghs.
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