Ford Car Boot Sale.

It's Saturday morning.
It's 07:40.
I'm dressed and have broken my fast.
Here's pictorial evidence:

Why is this happening to me?

This is happening to me because Linda wants to visit Ford Car Boot Sale in the hope of finding a chest of drawers big enough to fit all the garments she has taken prisoner yet refuses to wear and leaves scattered around the flat.

Ford Car Boot will be familiar to fans of the daytime T.V. delight "Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is".  Which purports to be a competition where "Televison's top consumer experts are put to the test as they're pitted against one another and challenged to make a profit - with their own money and their reputations on the line".

Yeah, right...

Essentially, a bunch of dodgy dealers who railroad people into parting with items for a pittance then screw the punters in their contact books till the pips squeak.

I'm a big fan of the show.

Word from a couple of regulars at Ford it is that they hate it when the flim crews turn up as it can have tax implications for these deeply honest legitimate business men trying to eek a meagre living from flogging stuff most charity shops would toss in the bin.

When we get to Ford it's overcast, raining and the restaurant facilities are second to none:

We wander around until Linda locates a suitable chest of drawers.

At this point I would have liked to feature a picture of the cheery fellow accepting 40 of Linda's hard earned pound notes in exchange for the chest of drawers but it might have tax implications for him and his white van so let's move swiftly to the bit where I have to load the bloody enormous piece of oak furniture into the boot of the Golf

At this stage things are not going well.

I thought it might make things easier if I lightened the load by removing the drawers before I lifted the carcass into the boot.

The situation wasn't helped by an idiot spectator pointing out several of the flaws in my plan.

I smiled and suggested that only children and fools criticise a job half done, removed the carcass to the point where I could balance it on the rear of the car and replace the drawers at the same time.

Oh how we laughed.

Anyway, the chest of drawers is at it's new home now (after a fractious journey up the stairs into the flat) and receiving a lovingly applied coat of wax polish before being stuffed to bursting with Linda's surplus clothing:

Which makes me wonder, bearing in mind that most of the clothes will never be worn again, why didn't we just take them to the car boot sale instead?

As Linda is bound to point out, I'm just a man and am therefore incapable of understanding these things.

I notice that sexual stereotyping is a double-edged sword.