The car boot sale was large, busy and cold. He wandered through the crowds without paying any particular attention to the stalls with the same assortment of old electrical goods, videos, cds, books, crockery, cutlery and clothes. He didn't think that he would be interested in buying anything anyway, and in any case, she had instructed him not to bring anything back with him. He left the house with the words burned into his consciousness: 'Don't dare bring back any more junk'. Forbidden from purchasing even the smallest piece of bric-a-brac, he realised that the fun had gone out of the whole event. Where is the enjoyment when you can't even spend 50p on a couple of pottery soup bowls from the 1970s, or an old John Christopher paperback from the 1950s? Still, he wandered past the wallpapering tables laden with all varieties of treasures and of rubbish. He watched the crowds jostling and pushing and picking through cardboard boxes full of old books and crates full of cds and suitcases full of electrical fittings, tarnished cutlery and old baby clothes. He sucked in the smell of the hamburger stalls and the promise of fresh coffee. He listened to the butcher pledge a free pork chop with each sirloin steak sold; to the man who announced his offer of a free carrier bag with all purchases over £3; and to the sound of Jimmy Shand's fiddles echoing from the stalls in the sheds. The wind howled across the Carse as he made his purchase: two brand new bath sheets for £10. He just couldn't leave without buying something.