Car booty booty

At the bottom of our bed, through the window and down a few floors is a school. Like many such academic establishments, it has a yard. Happen upon it in the week and this playground is ram-jammed with hollering youths throwing balls at each other and screaming. However, at the weekends, this pre-pubescent battleground is replaced by purveyors of fine (or not so fine tat) as part of the Princess May car boot sale.

The lure of the booty is always one hard to avoid and as such, we've purchased many a killer item from it in the time we've resided in such close proximity. Coats, shoes, records, pictures, pots, DVDs - in fact most of the shit that lies in mounds around our gaff is from down there.

While we've mainly been consumers when it comes to the boot, we've also taken it up ourselves to don the other boot and sell our shit. Much of the shit that we've bought from there in the first place. We did it back in March to raise money for charity and decided to do it again, this time to raise dosh for our holibobs. It was no less fun if a little less successful financials wise but that was the vibe. We managed to shift a furry coat for a tenner and saw Alex Kapronos from Franz Ferdinand buy an old turntable but neglect our collection of one pound DVDs. Your loss Alex you old duffer!

That gourmet shit right there

Dude in cape = the car boot clown

Our neatly arranged wares

An older couple attempting to give each other a backy at seven in the am... 

Grace

One man's shite is another man's unicorn

If you have a peak out our bedroom window (if you can get to it through the mounds of unwashed undies - my unwashed undies), then you'll get an eyeful of the Princess May school's playground in Dalston. During the week it's highly likely the screams and shouts of the kids will wake you from your hangover. However, at the weekend, it's the rumbling of the car boot shaking itself to life which provides the soundtrack to flayling about looking for a glass of water and the ibuprofen.

The car boot has been a constant since we've lived here. Most of the better items in our flat, including clothes, shoes and posh pots, have the origins in the cast offs of other people. Many of the shit DVDs were picked up from an old dude with a 4x4. I even bumped into a good mate from another part of the country who I hadn't seen for nearly ten years in the car boot. It's a right special place so the notion of having our own pitch to raise some charity dosh was one we took to with thick dollops of wild gusto.

In keeping with the other constant since being here, we went for one bev at nearby boozer the Marquis of Lansdowne the night before and ended up having a total skinful with some strangers. It meant only five hours kip until we had to drag ourselves up and into the queue for the booty sale. But no matter. The endeavour still turned out to be life affirming in the extreme. It just so happens that certain people really want other people's shite. We sold millions of CDs, plenty of clothes, books galore, organic coat hangers, and bits of tat that no one in their right mind could use but still couldn't resist. Hotel slippers at the competitive price of 20p. A ring - for you mate 20p. Our arguably wayward way with a haggle almost lead us to flogging a piece of jade possibly worth £100 for a couple of quid but other than that it was a triumph. We made a whole load of dosh, plus the burgers are to die for. What are you waiting for? Get yourself a pitch!

Early doors mateee

Hello you

Selling hard