Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
It's true that an awful lot of scrap metal gets thrown away and some of the white goods
might not be beyondrepair
monstres.
It's an ideal system in many ways, and those that have
put the stuff out in the first place aren't bothered, they're just glad to see the back of it. It's
quite an arresting sight, though. Dozens of young Elvis lookalikes scurrying about picking
through piles of discarded furniture and electrical goods, with Natalie.
She really is utterly shameless and she's passed it on to Maurice. I hadn't realised that while
we were on holiday last year Maurice had discovered that when people packed up to leave
the campsite we were staying on, quite often they would leave behind deck chairs that they
no longer had room for. Maurice, chancer that he is, would go around the campsite collecting
discarded beach furniture and store it under our caravan. It was only on our last day that I
noticed the piles of stuff hidden away, like a deckchair graveyard - all sizes and colours and
all collected by Maurice who hoped to sell them on at a later date.
It's in his genes I'm afraid. Natalie cannot contain herself when the
monstres
is on, it's like
a
brocante
(flea market) to her but without the overheads, and to give her credit in the front
garden we do have a lovely sewing table, no home should be without one, and numerous bas-
kets dotted about the place. The only downside to this carry-on is that I get roped in as driver
and, I hesitate to say it, strongman; she tells me where to stop and what to put in the car,
which I do as quickly and as surreptitiously as possible. It's the lack of dignity I can't stand.
I know these things have been thrown away but really… I'm afraid that I'm far too English
for all this, far too embarrassed and I hide my face if a car approaches. Not that anonymity is
an issue when you're the only mod in the area. I can just about cope with grabbing something
hastily, throwing it in the boot and making a quick getaway. But I really draw the line when
I'm asked to climb into a skip.
I was out chauffeuring Natalie on one of the
monstres
runs and I saw an original 1960s
hanging basket chair that would be perfect, if I were allowed any choice in the matter of in-
terior decoration, for the office I someday planned to build. I had to have it. Without having
to climb into the skip I managed to drag the thing out right from under the nose of a young
Romani lad while Natalie rifled through some pottery across the road. I threw the chair into
the car, dived back into the driver's seat, pulled my jacket collars up and put my sunglasses
back on. I'd got what I wanted but it wasn't exhilarating in any way; it just felt wrong.
I stayed there for a few minutes waiting for Natalie and then there was a knock at the win-
dow, it was the young lad from the skip. Oh no, I thought, he's going to claim a prior stake
and there'll be some unseemly toing and froing over the thing. He knocked on the window
again.
I opened the window a fraction. 'Yes?' I snapped.
'You left the hanging hook behind,' he said, giving me the ceiling hook for the chair before
taking an impressive standing leap back into the skip.
'Now you're one of us,' Natalie laughed as she got back into the car. Oh, the shame.
