Customers and cakes

It doesn't happen very often, trust me, it really doesn't. But once in awhile you meet a rare being. A nice customer. Yesterday I met that customer - two in fact. An elderly couple who asked me to spring clean their enormous seaside front property.

As I hauled my things up the stairs, the lady of the house asked if I wanted a cup of coffee before I started. I suggested it would be nice to have one about 10.30 a.m and at precisely that time she arrived with not just coffee but a china plate on which sat two slices of bara brith plastered with real butter, two Welsh cakes and several chocolate biscuits.

'Sit down dear', she said. 'Take a break.'

Now I'm used to getting steely glares from customers if I so much as stop to breathe. Time is their money. In fact, I half expect some of them to have a whip secreted in their cupboard just in I stop working. I have even been given a mug of coffee and expected to drink it while scrubbing a toilet at the same time. So this was a bit of a shock.

Of course the other thing is: I'm on a diet and have high cholesterol. I welcomed the break but shouldn't I refuse the mouth-watering delights she was waving under my nose? And then I thought how offended she might feel and couldn't I just hoover like a maniac and burn off the extra calories? And as for the trans-fat about to clog up my arteries, well, I just prayed they wouldn't. Not today.

'I can also make you lunch,' the lady suggested.

'Thanks, but I've brought my own,' I replied, thinking of the dry, ceiling-tile, rice cakes sitting in my plastic sandwich box. Yes, you're right Homer Simpson - where is the taste???

An hour later as I polished a sideboard within an inch of its life the lady reappeared. 'Just brought you a few things to put with your lunch,' she smiled, placing a carrier bag in front of me.

I delved inside. Fruit. Good. Apricot yogurt. Good. Two huge chocolate chip cookies. Bad.
Chocolate and cream dessert. Very bad.

'Eat them up,' she said. 'You need the calories.'

Like I need a hole in the head, I thought. But any will power I had left, and believe me there's never much to start with, shot out of the window and headed for the Irish sea. I succumbed.

After the feast. I worked my socks off and cleaned their property to perfection. Not just because it's what I do but because I hoped cleaning like I was on hyper-drive might justify why I'd eaten the contents of my customer's pantry.

But not often do I received such hospitality. Most people treat me with contempt. After all if you clean you must be thick and therefore not worthy of recognition. But just once in awhile you meet some one genuinely nice. And for that, I am grateful.

Boot Sales

Following my aborted attempt at the Flea Market in which (see previous blogs) I didn't sell very much much but came away with a useful piece of knowledge: How to fight off a would-be attacker. This was courtesy of the ex-bouncer running the next stall who wasn't selling much either and in his boredom decided to teach me some moves. I then decided to try my hand at boot sales.

And I found a whole new genre of customers: The rabid bargain hunters and the I'll-buy-any-piece-of-tat people. The latter was well-evidenced by the lady at the stall next to me, who had an tatty, old piece of rope for sale. 'Found it on the beach,' she giggled when she saw me staring at it with disbelief. But lo and behold, not two minutes later, I saw a woman walking away with the rope swung over her shoulder and my fellow stall holder with a grin on her face.

The rabid bargain hunters won't take any item at face value. If it's £1 they want it for 50p. If it's only 20p they want it for 5p. I've learnt to deal with them. Just price everything a lot higher. As long as they think they are beating you down they are happy.

And then we have 'boot divers' - horrible, professional booters who attack your car and try and buy things off you for peanuts so that they can put it back on their stall for a fat profit. The man on the stall next to me at one boot sale said he once drove into a field and couldn't understand what was wrong with his car, it was jumping all over the place. He looked over his shoulder to see the doors of his estate had been flung open and boot divers were into his stuff before he'd even had the chance to stop!

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoy booting and, save for the fact I've run out of things to sell, would happily do it every week. My home-made Welsh cakes sell like -- hot cakes. People actually come back for more. So I am thinking of branching into baking. I fancy seeing myself on a stall surrounded by cup cakes and bara briths. It may be a while before I hang up my Marigolds but at least I now see light at the end of the tunnel - albeit a very distance glimmer.