Flo and I were up with the larks this morning. Kirsty, not an early riser by nature, had kindly offered to take us to Newton Abbot Livestock Market where a car boot sale was taking place; the largest in the South Hams.

Approaching it like a military exercise, we calculated the vernal equinox would catch out some but we welcomed the extra impetus, having adjusted our clocks to British Summer Time the moment Casualty finished.

It took about 40 minutes to travel the distance from Appleton Marsh to Newton Abbot. Although, a flying crow would have traveled due south across Dartmoor, we took a more circuitous route, following the A30 to Exeter where we picked up my favourite dual carriageway, the A380. We arrived at Newton Abbot just before 7.30am. The gates didn’t open to the sleep-deprived public until 9.00am but we were treated to a master class in charm by Flo who flirted and sweet-talked her way past a steward and we were soon mingling with the car-booters as they set up ‘stall’.

To cut a long story with a happy ending short, we both found what we were looking for. Flo was hunting for a new moisture absorbing shaker for her trusty biscuit barrel. In the end she bought a second-hand biscuit barrel with a fleur de lys motif which was a very reasonable 50p (I should say haggled tenaciously down by Flo from a less reasonable 75p). The plan is to switch its shaker into her biscuit barrel and I shall use the leftover barrel as a storage container for unopened packets of bombay mix.

The reason I needed to go to the car boot sale was to hunt for a new hairbrush. Not just any old hairbrush though; one with a mother of pearl back to match a dressing table set I already own (what happened to my original one is another long story for another day). Well I couldn’t believe my luck when I found an almost perfect match. I spotted it, tangled up in a fuzz of grey hair (no doubt belonging to its previous proud, and presumably now dead, owner) amongst some old jigsaws and paperweights. Without appearing too eager, I asked its owner how much she wanted for it. She looked me up and down and then made a sort of this-is-a-family-heirloom kind of expression before delivering the hammer-blow. It would be £10. I offered £1, hopeful of meeting somewhere in the middle, but she had time on her side, with a thousand punters no more than an hour away. Then, out of the blue, she said: “Give me a tenner and I’ll throw in the Pifco foot massager.”  I’d already spotted the foot massager and agreed so readily that she looked quite unsettled.

We were so happy on the journey home, the three of us giggling like schoolgirls all the way back to Appleton Marsh. I do love it when a plan comes together.