Let's Talk About...

... car boot sales. Those typically British outdoor markets - especially during spring and summer - where all kind of paraphernalia are put up for sale.

The main objective of a car boot sale ("trunk" in the States) is to get rid of unwanted items, whether they be bric-à-brac or gardening equipment. There's however another unintentional motive.

Car boot sales are the perfect introduction for children to the workings of modern capitalism.

Professional traders selling their cheaply-produced wares at cut-off prices, domestic surplus on display and never-ending haggling; all these elements are the sine qua non of modern capitalism. And children, especially younger ones, lap it up in the same way some people dream of becoming the next Bill Gates.

In preparation for our first car boot sale, my children and my wife divided and labelled the various items that would be put up for sale and worked out how much to charge per unit. There were a few heart-rending moments as toys that had, not so long ago, filled up my children's playtime, were put in the pile. But this was no time for cheesy, Kate Winslet "gather, gather" sentimental moments. There was a trip to Cornwall looming ahead and if my son and daughter wanted to have money to spend, then, they would have to sacrifice some of their precious childhood keepsakes.

As soon as we arrived at the pitch (twelve quid for sale and parking space, not bad, really), we all threw ourselves into action. The merchandise was strategically placed. A bicyle that had seen better days was one of the two items that we were desperate to get rid of. The other one was a tent that had been blown over the fence into our garden and had not been claimed by anyone. In between them both we scattered dinosaurs, small cars, prams, dolls and books. We were ready. Are you watching Greece? This is how you run a business. Default was never a part of our vocabulary that day.

Yet, one issue with which you have to contend at a car boot sale is that everyone has the same idea. After all, we're all there, not just to sell, but also to return home with fewer items than we left. And if we have to start yelling at the top of our lungs, like traders in the City and Wall Street, to attract attention, we'll do it.

Out of my two children, I now know who will be the hedge fund manager. My daughter went from a passive, almost angelic state of on-the-spot salesperson to a hands-on CEO using sophisticated market strategies to generate returns higher than traditional stock and bond investments. She left our pitch and wandered around the cordoned-off field bartering goods, cajoling customers and driving hard bargains. My son, in the meantime, got fed up after a while and sneaked into our car to read his book. He will be the chairman. And when the going gets tough he will probably blame the minions who work on the sales floor.

In my case, I took a closer look at what people were selling. It's not too far-fetched to suggest that a car boot sale is almost a peek into someone's front room. Volumes by Dean Koontz, Danielle Steel and Lynda La Plante were ubiquitous. CDs by the likes of Macy Gray (On How Life Is), Michael Buble, the Spice Girls, Westlife and Will Young convinced me once more that in the UK a lot of people live their lives in the middle of the road, with no fear of ever getting run over. Occasionally a stall would stand out, either by displaying left-of-field music by bands such as Placebo or Garage (I bought their debut album) or books by Ian Mc Ewan and Mark Haddon. But on the whole I was witnessing mass consumerism in a large scale. The result of spur-of-the-moment purchases, which later end up in the scrapheap. Or in a car boot sale. This is what capitalism is about. Buying what you neither need nor - sometimes - really want, yet makes you feel better, because the act of buying - and having - is stronger than the act of saying, no, I don't need it.

However, a car boot sale is a great way of fostering a spirit of enterprise and adventure in the younger generation. After all, if they're careful enough with the merchandise they're selling, including pricing, they're more likely to think in real money terms as opposed to inflated notions of investment. And after what happened three years ago (Lehman, RBS and Northern Rock, I'm talking to you), that can only be a good lesson to learn.

© 2011

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 2nd October at 10am (GMT)

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

Back in the day when I was a child in Cuba, there used to be a television programme called San Nicolás del Peladero. The eponymous town at the centre of the sketch show was the fictional setting for the run-ins and tiffs between politicians from – at the time, probably late 1940s, early 50s – Cuba’s two main parties: the Conservatives and the Liberals. In addition to the government legislators, there were also characters deeply rooted in Cuba’s rich theatrical tradition: the mulatto woman, “el gallego” (literally, Galician, as that was the appellation given to most Spaniards who arrived in Cuba at the turn of the 20th century), the bent copper, the tough guy (accompanied by his inseparable knife) and the fashionable aristocrat. The programme launched the career of many actors and actress, whilst it developed the skills and craft of others.

Although the aim was to entertain, San Nicolás del Peladero always had an ulterior motive, and it made no secret of it: deep down inside, the message was, Conservatives and Liberals were the same. The two parties that dominated Cuban politics for half a century until the arrival of Fidel and his band of merry, bearded men in Havana, could hardly been told apart. Thus, I grew up with the idea that being a Liberal wasn’t so dissimilar to being a toff.

Yet, there was always a niggling feeling inside me that grew louder after I moved to the UK. I could, and in the end, did accept the “liberal” tag, but “Conservative”, even with a small “c”? No. That would have been a tad bit too much.

And yet…

They say that as you get older you start developing a more traditional and old-fashioned view of the world. Whereas before your vocabulary was peppered with words such as: evolution (and revolution!), progress and reform, now you feel more comfortable in the realm of terms such as preservation and restoration.

To which I say, where’s the harm in that? After my first decade in London I eventually realised that I was growing a conservative streak, albeit not one of a political nature.

No, my conservatism was rooted more on the original meaning of the Latin word "conservare" (to preserve). It was more related to the maintenance of some traditional attitudes than to an outright support for the status quo.

For instance, I’ve always believed that manners matter in society. How you treat others is just as important as, or, occasionally, more important than the clothes you wear or the car you drive. Opening doors for women, giving your seat up on public transport for someone who needs it more than you do, saying “good morning/afternoon/evening” or “hello” when you run into someone; these were the norms with which I was brought up. It brings out the curmudgeon in me when people try to make a causal link between boorish behaviour nowadays and the attention span deficit brought about by modern technology.

If exposure to bad manners makes me sound like a "Mr Disgruntled from Tunbridge Wells" on the pages of The Daily Telegraph, reckless government decisions lay bare my inner Eustace Tilley, The New Yorker’s long-standing front cover dandy. Take for example the plans earlier this year to sell off England's public forests. The sale would have expected to raise in excess of £150m over a ten-year period. The problem was that the leases being considered for tender were under what's known as "heritage sites" or "heritage forests", in short, woodland that has a very high conservation and recreation value. The government proposals were so ill-thought that opposition against them brought together groups that wouldn't normally be found consorting together like for instance, the Countryside Alliance (pro-hunting) and the Stop the War movement (self-explanatory, really). When it comes to defending the right to walk at one's leisure through one of the many wonderful woods that this nation can proudly boast about, especially on an autumn day, it seems that there's no left or right, but just "conservare".

Another issue where tradition gets the better of me is shopping centres and supermarkets. When I speak to people born and bred in the UK, they can't believe how fast the retail landscape has changed in the last twenty-odd years. The little cornershop, the local fishmonger's, grocer's and butcher's with their misplaced apostrophes. They have all given way to the Tescos, Sainsbury's and Asdas. They have been wiped out to make space for Westfield-style shopping centres in our brand-new, outside-the-box-thinking, cool Britannia. Never mind that with this new architectural approach (some would call it "onslaught") the soul of local communities has been gouged and hundreds, if not thousands, years of history erased. No, what's important is that hideous buildings like the Shard become the vision of the future in this country. Me, I'm happy with the two-up, two-down, red-tiled, standard British house and all its varieties. Keep London and Britain, by default, low-rise. We don't need Manhattan-style skyscrapers, m'lud.

As a forward-thinking and progressive person, I welcome the changes that have resulted in a social and racial melting pot in the UK. I belong to it. I have contributed to it. But I also love this nation's rich heritage. I enjoy walking through its forests, learning about its traditions and visiting its old estates. And no, that doesn't make me a Tory-supporting, wannabe-fox-hunter. It makes me an advocate for the values and morals that underpin our culture and history. I'm sure that even Plutarco, the maire in San Nicolás del Peladero, would agree with that.

© 2011

Next Post: “Let’s Talk About…”, to be published on Wednesday 28th September at 11:59pm (GMT)