My favourite Sunday morning activity in London was the car boot sale.
Oh, how I would spring out of bed.
My local was Stoke Newington, but my mate Sam and I would venture down south to Battersea and Pimlico too. We would walk the market until we had done enough mileage to justify a pasta at Capitan Corelli Restaurant on Battersea Park Road.
It was fun to poke around all the junk.
But the highlight for me was the characters. I loved to get a 50p cup-of-tea from the lovely Essex couple in the bacon butty van. I loved that there was a certain rhythm to the folks that would show up, that you could recognise the same stall holders, and shoppers too.
I have a fond memory of a couple in their mid-thirties, who stood beside a Dodge Caravan surrounded by trestle tables. He was English, she was Japanese. They were selling the entire contents of a recently disbanded gun club near Blackfriars.
It was all very James Bond. The club was located down the stairs to St Paul’s walk, on the embankment, next to the Thames. On the tables were shooting targets, ammunition boxes, shooting jackets with leather elbow and shoulder pads, the gun club set of stamps in a glass case, prone shooting mats, tall aluminum lockers, bags and bags of spent ammunition, badges and pins with the clubs insignia, and not a single gun.
It was scenes like these that kept me coming back week after week.
Last week, Charlotte spotted a sign that said Vide Grenier or empty attic. This phrase indicates a market—empty your attic, and line your pockets. The market was at Le Beausset, a neighbouring village. I am an incorrigible market goer and Charlotte has undiagnosed hoarding tendencies.
Together, we are a feral cat lady waiting to pounce.
The Booty
After a couple of laps of the market, I settled on my prize.
It had the dual-purpose of aiding my woeful French and was a favourite from my childhood.
Can you guess?
It involves a Belgian gentleman, his famous quiff, a wire fox terrier named Milou, a drunken sea captain and the ubiquitous but incompetent Thomson and Thompson twin detectives.
Yes, that’s right. Tintin by Belgian cartoonist Hergé.
‘I am an incorrigible market goer and Charlotte has undiagnosed hoarding tendencies.
Together, we are a feral cat lady waiting to pounce.’
Got a thorough kick out of this passage. Homeboy Waterman, finding his French feet, if not his French tongue just yet.
Brother! Reading this, I can feel your glee - in your element foraging for curios and uncovering the tales living in the objects that only a true digger recognises! That Tintin is also one of my undisputed favourites! Keep 'em coming matey, can't wait for the next instalment. I forward them to my brother and will encourage a few of the Brunswick buggers to sign up too :-)