Boot sale

Three generations are off to a boot sale in search of bargains. At the gate is a man collecting ‘contributions’. All a bit vague but I drop in 50p.

Where shall we park my good man?
Over there, says the collector of vague contributions, pointing some miles away.
What about that space there, I ask nodding in the direction of a handy spot just in front?
That’s for the disabled
What about my mother?
Oh, I can manage says tyrant mother who has just assumed the guise of the frail and feeble.
Take that spot then, collector of tonight’s beer money says guiltily.

We park and mother nips out of the car, clutches the arm of her grand-daughter and limps off.

Can he see us asks rapidly aging mother?
No.
Well, let go of me then she says, galloping away to the first stall. And by the way, what are we going to put all our purchases in, she asks? I scurry back to the car to retrieve a few dozen bags.
Perusing a stall full of nothing, I spot a number of white umbrellas. They could be handy for the wedding, I suggest to the bride-to-be. This is tricky territory. Rain is, of course, forbidden on the day of the nuptials. Nonetheless, one can’t control everything.

How many umbrellas are there asks my mother? A quick count on behalf of the stall-holder: ten.
How much for the lot then demands feeble pensioner?
A fiver replies increasingly intimidated umbrella purveyor. I might have some more in the van.

A quick search results in the discovery of a further fourteen.

How much for the lot then demands feeble pensioner?
Eight pounds plus the sack says terrified stall-holder.
Done says feeble pensioner. You certainly were my man. Twenty-four brand new umbrellas for eight quid. Bargain. We head back to the car with a large log basket, a smaller plant basket, an assortment of glass bottles, a book and twenty four white umbrellas.
You’d better hand that lot over I say to my mother. That man with the collection bucket is still up there.
Hang on then, she says. I’ll start limping.