Today I went to my first car boot sale. It was an experience to say the least. Having heard horror stories of polyester-clad ogres tapping on your windows when you draw up, opening your doors and rifling through your stuff before you've even taken your seatbelt off, we decided to get there at 6am. For normal people this would work, but this start time didn't gel well with my semi-insomnia. With a solid two hours sleep under my belt we rolled onto a dewy field to find ourselves, thankfully, one of the first there.

Having convinced a slightly odd-looking gentleman that I was, in fact, not an arms dealer selling any "weapons, guns or rifles", we ironically managed to set our pitch with military timing. Surviving an early minor scare selling a dish dated 1792 for £1, the rest of the morning went smoothly. The punters rolled in and the crap sailed out by the Tesco carrierbag-full. My leather bum-bag was plump by midday and it was time to get out before the lady who I'd talked out of £1.50 decided she indeed had no use for ripped, crotchless suit trousers.

I have to say, considering the unsavoury reputation, car boot sales are actually great fun. After tackling some simple rules, it's a great opportunity to have a laugh with some friends about the kind of shite you'd managed to hide from them since you've been acquainted.