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Have you ever risked being a vendor at a car-boot sale?...well Ali Sparkes has.

Ali Sparkes

"THERE are times when your house feels like a backdrop for Steptoe & Son, and what better solution than to tip it all in the back of the car and flog it at a car boot sale?

Do not take this idly. It's a world you may know nothing about, and it's my grim duty to forewarn you. If at least one person can be saved, it'll have made it all worthwhile. Drink some sweet tea and listen.

Now experienced car boot sellers know the mysterious ways of the rutted field and the man with a pinny who drifts, like Obi-Wan-Kenobi from his little hut to welcome them in.

But I knew nothing of this. And the Force was not strong in me on that Sunday morning at 7am when we bumped optimistically along the muddy grass track, our wares packed in the back of the ageing Passat estate.

When the car boot Jedi approached, I was confused. Did he want to offer me a welcome and directions? No. He wanted four quid. I was scared. I had only 4.25 and that was supposed to be my float. But he said 'You do want to give me four quid, and then you want to park your car. Later you will go home and rethink your life.'

I handed over the cash and followed the lines of teenage lads in day-glo vests, pointing hard and repeatedly at where I was to park, in case I giggled, let go of the wheel to put lipstick on and skidded off three feet to the left. As we women drivers do all the time.

I stopped the engine. My partner and I looked at each other, wondering how long it would take us to neatly lay out all our goods on a wallpaper pasting trestle and put little sticky price labels on them and maybe unscrew flask of tea before we opened for business.

There was a crack on the back window. And then a thud. And then we screamed.

Faces, hands, peering, clawing, moaning and demanding, plastered all over the windscreen and the windows, sliding across the bonnet and possibly even crouching under the wheel arches, trying to punch up through the rusty holes. It was like a scene from the Zombie Flesh Eaters. The desperation in the crowd that completely smothered our vehicle was growing and after a while, gazing in horror at the collage of heaving flesh and fabric sticking to the glass, we began to make out terrifying snatches of its moaning, shrieking chant…

'Have you got a turn-table? Hoover bags, Hoover Bags. Gotta find Cliff Richard records, scratched and bent or even broken, any lamps, any pots, is that jigsaw any good? I'll have the blow up orange thing. Hoover bags, Hoover bags… Is that a vibro massage foot spa!'

There was nothing else for it. We pushed the doors open; it was like shoving against water and we did wonder if we would have to wind down the windows and let some body bits bulge in, to equalize the pressure, but somehow we managed to slide. 'Let us just get the boot open - and get the stuff out' we pleaded, edging along the car and knocking several dribbling ghouls on the chin as we pulled up the boot. They didn't seem to notice.

Then my partner held them off with a slightly used swap mop, while we threw the trestle table up and started to chuck our stuff on top. Scenting victory, they were willing to pull back for just a few seconds while we extracted the goods, and then they fell upon us. My neat little reel of sticky labels and biro bounced, untouched, in my pocket. It was a feeding frenzy.

'How much for the space hopper, love? It's not punctured is it? Does this blender work? Is there any lava in this lamp? What's this wooden thing with balls for? Is this set of 1500 Pokemon cards complete?'

The terror in our hearts was symbolised by the quaking of the wallpapering table, which was far too weak for the job and beginning to buckle. Eventually it collapsed and everyone went with it. There was a lot of crawling about, helping us to collect the goods again. Some were so helpful, they chose not to burden our table further and just put the stuff away in bags and pockets for us.

And then… as quickly as they arrived - they were gone.

Another new car with unwitting victims had pulled up. Dazed, we slumped into our boot and watched. It was like the opening sequence in a teen horror flick, except the virgin sellers weren't wearing fetching swimsuits.

We counted our takings. At least we'd made some money. Maybe 15 pounds, with a few yen and a threepenny bit. Then we thought we'd shut up and go for a wander. And spent it all on a fondue set, still boxed…"