Jonny McCambridge column: Retail therapy – my son and the ugly giraffe teach me a lesson at the car boot sale

In my case, I’ve always had a weakness for cookbooks. I own hundreds of them. Far too many to be practical. If I were to live to be 120, there would still not be enough days to prepare all the recipes within those pages.

The folly is compounded when you consider that the method for cooking every conceivable dish in the world is accessible within seconds online. However, I am still drawn to the old books, poring over the creased pages, examining the photographs and mentally modifying the recipes to my own taste.

But there comes a point where practicality crashes into sentiment. Without building an extension to my house, there is just no more room. Thus, there are now four large cardboard boxes hidden in the dark corners of the attic, filled with the cookbooks which I have judged I am least likely to read again.

More generally, my wife has recently been involved in trying to ease space issues by getting rid of a number of toys and books from my son’s room. As parents of an only child, I would freely admit that we have been guilty over the years of indulging him with too many possessions. I stayed out of it as my wife and son began the process of bargaining over what would go and what had to stay. I was also slightly detached when she told me that they had agreed to try and raise some pocket money by selling old toys at a car boot sale.

One thing that quickly became clear was that there can be deeply ingrained memories hidden within what might appear to be merely plastic or cardboard junk. Several times I was summoned as long-forgotten items were rediscovered and the dust blown off old stories.

A tattered teddy he used to sleep with, the first books he read, an old musical toy. It was decided that several items simply had to stay, which, were we members of a more rational species, would surely have been discarded.

It was only on the morning of the car boot sale that I was finally called into active service. Several of the boxes were heavy so I was required to carry them to the car. I started to become more interested, and with it could feel a little trace of dread rising out of my stomach.

I could see that my son was excited. He was obviously looking forward to the sale and believed he was going to earn some money. I had never been to a car boot sale before and not to a jumble sale since primary school. Was there really a market for selling junk like this?

I found myself worrying that my son was setting his hopes too high and would end up crushed and disappointed. I forced myself to smile and be encouraging as he asked me if he could have one of my Tupperware containers to use as a money box.

As I loaded the last cardboard box into the car a small item fell out. I picked it off the ground. A tiny plastic giraffe, grimy and indescribably ugly. I presume it must have once been a bath toy, but I had no memory of ever seeing it before. I threw it into the back of the car while mumbling sadly to myself: “Who on earth would ever want to buy that?”

I was keenly aware that this had been my wife and son’s project so I left them to go to the sale and promised I would meet them later. I had a couple of hours of work to do before I set off, still feeling slightly uneasy.

It took me some time to find my family amid the heavy throng of people who had gathered in the car park of a local church. When they were finally identified, my son ordered me to wait as he was dealing with a customer. I watched for a few minutes as small groups of people filed past. A few books were sold, toy cars and action figures also.

The large superhero playset which hadn’t been looked at for years went for a fiver. I was delighted at the brisk trade, but just as impressed as I watched my shy son dealing confidently with the customers, agreeing prices and handing over change.

In a quieter moment he took me behind the folded table where his toys were displayed and showed me the Tupperware container, now close to filled with pound coins and a few notes. He had made a list of all the items sold and was now onto a second page.

I watched for a few more moments. A middle-aged woman approached the table. She spent a few seconds looking at the toys and then seemed set to move on. But she hesitated and then held up an item for inspection. It was the little plastic giraffe.

“How much is this son?”

“That’s 20p,” he responded assuredly.

She fished in her purse for a coin and handed it over. I decided it was time to go for a walk, to leave my son to his successful business while I, who clearly knew nothing, explored the rest of the yard. I wondered slowly from stall to stall, occasionally stopping to look at items. And then something caught my eye…

Five minutes later I returned to my wife and son carrying an armful of books. “What have you got there?” my wife asked, eyeing the haul suspiciously. “Well, it’s just some cookbooks that were on sale. There were only a pound each.”

She shook her head in despair. “I guess you can never have too many too many cookbooks,” I explained guiltily.