I flirted with the idea of buying a rifle at the carboot sale on Sunday. In fact, I flirted with the idea of buying a rifle AND a dueling pistol at the carboot sale on Sunday. Not because I’m at all interested in guns but I quite fancied finding out how far I would get down Leith Walk with my two new purchases before an Armed Response Unit was mobilized.
Obviously, I didn’t entertain the idea for very long but I was thinking about the way that carboot sales are full of someone else’s discarded past and someone else’s memories. Objects that might have sat proudly on a mantlepiece for years somewhere, watching the passage of life from up high, now dumped ignominiously on a collapsible table in a basement car park, prodded and poked by scores of passing bargain hunters.
And junk yards just scale up this abandonment even further. Things seem to come in waves too. So one day, you pop by and it seems that everyone has decided to chuck out their golf clubs, thousands of them, everywhere you look. The next time it might be that there are a job lot of discarded toilets. Or filing cabinets. Or hospital beds. Last time I went it was all bowling trophies and church pews.
And in amongst all that was this lady. I fancy that in her past life she graced the bow of ancient ship and sailed the seven seas, slicing through 60 ft waves, protecting pirates and lovers and adventurers. And now here she is, trapped in a junk yard shed, with only a pile of battered Nana Mouskouri records and a broken hairdryer for company. Looking wistfully out, the streak of glamour in an otherwise colossal heap of shit, fending off the disapproving glances of a thousand Crown Green Bowling Trophies.
Well that’s how I imagine it to be.
So today, we went back to liberate her from her suburban prison and give her a new home somewhere near (but probably not on) our mantlepiece, so she could gaze wistfully out at our life for a while.
Only someone else got there first and she was gone.