My friend, the Dynamo, and I are firmly of the belief that the car boot sale provides the optimum purchasing opportunity for plants. Lovingly grown by amateurs, selling off their excess Cosmos cheap, it’s a joy to behold. All of this can be washed down with a disgusting cup of tea, sitting on a plastic chair in a car park.
My personal car boot joy is dependant on being whisked to the car boot in someone else’s car, in order not to have to trudge home with arms weighed down by bags of potting compost and squashed plants. My friends are remarkably obliging in this respect; the Dynamo, Mr Dynamo and their son Dynamite, amongst them.
After this weeks’ expedition, the Dynamo offered me a lift home, via #Homebase where she had a pressing appointment with some sticky back plastic.
#Homebase was not much of a draw for the rest of us, not even with sticky back plastic on offer, so Mr Dynamo, Dynamite and I, elected to wait in the car. Adult chit chat did for Dynamite, who turned the volume up on his play list, so loud, that Mr Dynamo and I were forced to leap from the car for the good of our ear drums.
We were the loud people with all the doors open and the music blaring, who were now shouting at each other. “Let’s dance,” yelled Mr Dynamo. So we did….in the car park…..at #Homebase. The boy racers, making a fast getaway from the hotdog stand near the bins, could not have been more conspicuous than a couple of middle aged would-be rockers with no rhythm, no coordination and, for at least one of us, no sense of where her dance partner was in relation to herself.
None of this deterred us, and as Dynamite slammed the car doors shut in disgust, we got into our stride and our second number. Not that this turned out to be any different from the first dance. Having got the hang of it, I was hardly about to vary the moves, which may explain Mr Dynamo’s observations: “We are getting some very funny looks”.
“What kind of funny looks?” I asked.
“Oh, just funny,” he said.
As qualifiers go, “oh, just” isn’t that helpful.
My friend the builder says, “when you walk into people they look furious. They think you’re an ignorant selfish so and so.” This is more helpful. I know where I am and how to respond. “Well, they’re not my friends so in the scheme of things I’ll live with it.”
Not being able to see people’s faces as they scowl and curse is not much of a loss. Funny looks I’m curious about. Were they amused? Did they envy our sense of freedom dancing in a car park, giving free reign to the handbag over my shoulder? Did any of their faces betray an admiration for our moves? Were they laughing with us, or at us? When it comes down to it, who cares what other people think? Could not knowing offer a kind of freedom for judging eyes?
It was all too much for Dynamite to bare. His embarrassment was complete. He switched the music off and did a bit more door slamming. The Dynamo came back, carrying more sticky back plastic than Lesley Judd could shake a stick at. Mr Dynamo and I caught our breath and got back into the car as if nothing had happened. I doubt we have a future on #Strictly.
I carefully closed the door, lopping the heads off the Cosmos in the process, leaving the blooms as a tribute to our impromptu dance and taking the roots home for possible cultivation but probable disposal.
