The weather is unsettled. Summer and winter in the same day, several times over. As I write, I look out of the window and it's hailing. Ten minutes ago it was bright sunshine, and the sky was blue.
I am unsettled. Two family funerals in the past two months. Two house sales in the next two months. We close on ours in May, and my mother completes hers in June.
We aren't going to be at our closing in person ("closing" is the term for the meeting, where the seller, the buyer, the two realtors, and the title company, get together, usually at the premises of the title company, to sign off on the deal). We have the necessary documents, which we are going to sign, next week, in the presence of a US notary at the US Consulate General in Edinburgh. I've made the appointment. I found the act of making that appointment disproportionately stressful, necessitating a phone call to the Consulate General and the careful reading of their website. Anyone who has been through the process of getting a US visa will understand why. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that as I dialled the number, my heart started pounding. It was the memory of previous trips to the US Embassy in London, huge stacks of paperwork, photos rejected for random reasons, dealing with lawyer-speak well beyond the understanding of mere mortals like myself, slightly humiliating medicals and endless vaccinations, all at great expense and all with so much at stake.
My mother is leaving the house she and my father moved into, on 1st April, 1963. I was born in her bedroom. We gathered the family over Easter, to celebrate our family having been in the house for exactly 50 years (Easter Monday was 1st April, if you remember), and we had a lovely time: 3 generations, 16 people, 1 dog. But now it really is the final countdown. Contracts are being exchanged today (unless the solicitors come up with still more items to research), and completion is on 7th June. This really is it. Furniture will go to the local auction house. Belongings will be packed into a removal van. Items will disappear into boxes, to emerge in another house, in another town. Furniture, belongings, items, which I've known all my life. My roots are being severed. I don't like it.
It all makes me feel jittery. My hands and feet are permanently cold. I confess to spending more time than usual in a hot bath at the moment.
Where do I belong? I very nearly drove off on the right hand side of the road yesterday. It gave me a jolt. Don't I know which country I'm in by now? I couldn't find the spices in Tesco the other day. I looked up and down the "Homebaking" aisle where I knew they'd be, but I couldn't see them anywhere. I found the herbs, so I knew I was close. Then I saw them, and I realised why it had taken me so long. I had the wrong search criteria in my brain. I hadn't been scanning the shelves for spices in glass jars. I'd been scanning for spices in little red tins. Little red Kroger tins. Do I still think I'm in Dillons, not Tesco?
I suppose I'm like the spring. She has one foot in winter and one foot in summer. I have one foot in the past and one foot in the future. Blue sky and hail. That's me.
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Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Friday, April 26, 2013
Thursday, July 5, 2012
John Lewis replies
I believe in giving people a right to reply, so I didn't just blog about my disappointment with John Lewis. I also emailed their Customer Service department, who have emailed back.
R---- M------
John Lewis.com
.
Dear Iota,
Thank you for your email regarding entering a competition on our website.
I regret the disappointment caused by the competition to win a shopping weekend only being available in France and
Germany. We have participating partners in these countries to help facilitate the implementation of the offer. I am assuming
that we do not yet have any such contacts in your country. [No contacts? Booking a flight from America to London isn't
difficult, John Lewis. Trust me; I've done it several times.]
Germany. We have participating partners in these countries to help facilitate the implementation of the offer. I am assuming
that we do not yet have any such contacts in your country. [No contacts? Booking a flight from America to London isn't
difficult, John Lewis. Trust me; I've done it several times.]
Never the less, I have forwarded your thoughts to our Feedback Team for consideration when designing future offers
and competitions. [Did you point out to them that the competition was only open to residents of France and Germany, but
was presented as being open to all international customers? It's not the restrictions that bothered me, but the dishonesty. Just
to clarify.]
and competitions. [Did you point out to them that the competition was only open to residents of France and Germany, but
was presented as being open to all international customers? It's not the restrictions that bothered me, but the dishonesty. Just
to clarify.]
With regards to your blog you wrote; I would like to kindly decline your request for a response. [Kindly decline?]
If I can assist you with any other matter then please do not hesitate to contact me again.
Kind regards,
R---- M------
John Lewis.com
.
Monday, July 2, 2012
You disappoint me, John Lewis
One of the things that was annoying about living abroad, was that so few online retailers are geared up for you as a customer. I can't tell you the number of times I tried to order a present for a friend or family member in the UK, only to find out that I couldn't pay because my credit card had a US address. Why didn't you keep a UK credit card?, I hear you ask. I did. But even my UK credit card has a US billing address. Because the billing address is where you live. Not all of us have two houses.
Once, in an attempt to purchase an item and get round this payment problem, I said I'd sign up for a store card, thinking I'd only have to use it that one time, so no harm would be done. Of course it didn't work. I can't remember the detail of why, but I do know that it meant my unsuspecting friend, whose address I'd put in as a delivery address, received a store card of some description, Gold Customer, I seem to remember, though why she would ever want to shop at Toys R Us (yes, I'm looking at you), I can't imagine. And I still couldn't pay for the gift.
Some companies have the imagination or wit or brain or whatever it is to get round this problem. It is not difficult. It just means you have to have two spaces to put in two different addresses: the delivery address and the card billing address. And the card billing address has to be able to accept a 5-digit zip code, not just a 6-digit post code. Maybe it's more complicated than that behind the scenes, but some companies manage it, so why not all?
The other way round the problem, is to use your own individual imagination or wit or brain or whatever. I did just this recently, when buying a gift for a god-daughter. Last summer, when I was up in Fife, I heard about a friend who had set up a small knitting business. It started as a knitting circle, meeting one evening a week in a cafe, and has now become a shop. I tucked that piece of knowledge into the dark recesses of my mind, and a few months later, not wanting to subscribe another friend to Toys R Rubbish in a vain attempt to spend money, instead I phoned my craft-and-knitting friend, purchased a felt craft kit over the phone, and asked her to gift wrap it and post it for me. You could do the same, by visiting this website. And if you need a reason to visit it, beyond all the obvious ones to do with quality, choice, and supporting a new small business, then if I told you it was a shop called The Woolly Brew, would that persuade you? How great a name is that? Greater than Toys R Plastic, that's for sure.
So how does this all relate to John Lewis? Patience... I'm getting to that. John Lewis was one of my go-to companies for purchasing gifts for people in the UK, when I lived in the US. It's a brand name you can rely on - except for that blip about 16 years ago, when they fulfillled wedding lists with seconds china, on the assumption (correct in my case) that the recipients would be in a haze of newly-wed bliss or befuddlement, and not notice. But I've forgiven them that blip, I've always liked the company, and found them reliable. I receive emails from them, and today, they sent me one saying "Exclusive to our international customers; win your shopping weekend in London". Yay. Well, who wouldn't want to win a week-end in London (even one without a hyphen - or is that me being old-fashioned?) So I thought I'd enter, but since I haven't technically been an international customer since last Wednesday, I checked out the Terms and Conditions. I discovered that to be eligible to enter, you have to live in France or Germany. Funny that, because I don't. And I assume they know I don't. And during the process of entering the competition, it doesn't become apparent that you need to. When you are asked to specify where you live, you are given a drop-down menu of hundreds of countries (you know the one).
Sorry, John Lewis, but I think if your competition is only open to people living in France or Germany, you should say so. You specify that France includes Corsica, so you've obviously thought about it. And yes, you require entrants to tick a box saying they accept the Terms and Conditions, and so I suppose it's their own fault if they have failed to read them, but I expect better from you. It's now going to irritate me whenever I use those bowls that are clearly seconds.
.
Once, in an attempt to purchase an item and get round this payment problem, I said I'd sign up for a store card, thinking I'd only have to use it that one time, so no harm would be done. Of course it didn't work. I can't remember the detail of why, but I do know that it meant my unsuspecting friend, whose address I'd put in as a delivery address, received a store card of some description, Gold Customer, I seem to remember, though why she would ever want to shop at Toys R Us (yes, I'm looking at you), I can't imagine. And I still couldn't pay for the gift.
Some companies have the imagination or wit or brain or whatever it is to get round this problem. It is not difficult. It just means you have to have two spaces to put in two different addresses: the delivery address and the card billing address. And the card billing address has to be able to accept a 5-digit zip code, not just a 6-digit post code. Maybe it's more complicated than that behind the scenes, but some companies manage it, so why not all?
The other way round the problem, is to use your own individual imagination or wit or brain or whatever. I did just this recently, when buying a gift for a god-daughter. Last summer, when I was up in Fife, I heard about a friend who had set up a small knitting business. It started as a knitting circle, meeting one evening a week in a cafe, and has now become a shop. I tucked that piece of knowledge into the dark recesses of my mind, and a few months later, not wanting to subscribe another friend to Toys R Rubbish in a vain attempt to spend money, instead I phoned my craft-and-knitting friend, purchased a felt craft kit over the phone, and asked her to gift wrap it and post it for me. You could do the same, by visiting this website. And if you need a reason to visit it, beyond all the obvious ones to do with quality, choice, and supporting a new small business, then if I told you it was a shop called The Woolly Brew, would that persuade you? How great a name is that? Greater than Toys R Plastic, that's for sure.
So how does this all relate to John Lewis? Patience... I'm getting to that. John Lewis was one of my go-to companies for purchasing gifts for people in the UK, when I lived in the US. It's a brand name you can rely on - except for that blip about 16 years ago, when they fulfillled wedding lists with seconds china, on the assumption (correct in my case) that the recipients would be in a haze of newly-wed bliss or befuddlement, and not notice. But I've forgiven them that blip, I've always liked the company, and found them reliable. I receive emails from them, and today, they sent me one saying "Exclusive to our international customers; win your shopping weekend in London". Yay. Well, who wouldn't want to win a week-end in London (even one without a hyphen - or is that me being old-fashioned?) So I thought I'd enter, but since I haven't technically been an international customer since last Wednesday, I checked out the Terms and Conditions. I discovered that to be eligible to enter, you have to live in France or Germany. Funny that, because I don't. And I assume they know I don't. And during the process of entering the competition, it doesn't become apparent that you need to. When you are asked to specify where you live, you are given a drop-down menu of hundreds of countries (you know the one).
Sorry, John Lewis, but I think if your competition is only open to people living in France or Germany, you should say so. You specify that France includes Corsica, so you've obviously thought about it. And yes, you require entrants to tick a box saying they accept the Terms and Conditions, and so I suppose it's their own fault if they have failed to read them, but I expect better from you. It's now going to irritate me whenever I use those bowls that are clearly seconds.
.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
What can really only be described as rambling
OK, so here I am on the other side. Of the Atlantic. This isn’t a mystic voice from beyond the grave or anything. But you probably knew that. Oooh, I was about to write “But you probably knew that already”, which just goes to show. Year by year, day by day, sentence by sentence, I am being tweaked and shaped, and I become less and less the two people I flit between, UK and US, and more and more the one hybrid lump of somewhat amorphous personhood that… oooh, “somewhat”. Did you spot that?
For thus it is. The longer we live here in the Midwest, the more I become me, in this life that is my life. I’m no longer constantly surprised that it is my life. I don’t spend so much mental energy on comparisons and analysis. I’ve got used to the loss of many of the things I’ve had to let go of (not all…), and I’ve got used to carrying round the new things I’ve acquired. It’s just me, here or there. I’m feeling what the French would call “dans ma peau”, meaning literally “in my skin”. Very good expression, don’t you think? It’s rather taken me by surprise, because these transitions from one location to the other, from one culture to the other, are usually rather difficult. I know, too, that homesickness is a spooky lurking beast, and can pop out unexpectedly when you round a corner, so don’t be surprised if my next post is all about how much I miss England and how miserable I am.
For the moment, however, and we all know that the moment is the best place to live, life is good and seems full of potential. Today the kids are all back at school. I am debating whether to go back to the toy shop, which is fun, but has - as I predicted - rather lost its novelty, and is appallingly badly paid. I am capable of so much more, and as Husband’s teaching schedule this year means that he would be free to do school pick-ups, I have the freedom to explore. So I am job-hunting. I applied for a job online, but logged out half way through the process. I hadn’t got round to logging back in and finishing the form, when, blow me down, quick as a wink, the next morning I woke to find they’d sent me an email saying thanks but no thanks. This serves to confirm my worst anxieties about Corporate America. Way too flash fast for plodding-along me. But I know you’re all going to tell me not to be discouraged, and yes, you’re right. I will persevere.
The other idea that’s bumbling around in my head is to do an MA. My thought process goes like this. I can do an MA for free at Husband’s university. Ooh, good deal. What do they offer that I could do and that would be interesting and useful? (You have to remember it’s a small private university with a very small graduate programme, so the answer is not going to take long.) An MBA? Well, that would certainly look good on my cv, but it looks like you can’t really do it unless you’re in a job that will let you do on-the-job projects and assessments. And an MBA? Me? Really? Moving on… Counselling and Family Therapy. No. Not for me. At least not from that side of the table. Christian Ministry? An MA in Christian Ministry? Hm… Well, I don’t want to be a Christian minister… But it does look interesting. Some of it, anyway. And what’s this bit here? “You don’t have to be preparing for ordination or Christian leadership to take this course. Many of our students sign up for their own personal development.” Ooh, sounds like me. I’ve already spoken to Husband’s colleague who runs the programme, and he said he’d be happy to have me. Wa-hey! The only snaffoo (just learnt that word, isn’t it great?) with the idea is that I have discovered that although it’s billed as a freebie for families of employees of the university, it’s a taxable benefit and therefore does have a financial implication. Given the huge fees that people pay for these kinds of courses, even just paying the tax on it is significant. Plus there's the ginormous loss of earnings that I could potentially enjoy in my new, reinvented, Iota as Corporate Princess, “who needs to fill out a whole application form, can’t you see how impressive I am from the first half?” self.
So… job or MA, job or MA, or shall I just go back to the toyshop and potter along? Options, options.
Meanwhile, back at the first day of school for my kids, I have to just tell you that I am super-impressive in the whole area of school supplies these days. Gone are the laborious hours wandering round Target, Wal-mart, Hobby Lobby, Office Max and wherever else the last person mentioned, lists clutched in sweaty hands, wondering why on earth it has to be a pink eraser, not an eraser of the colour of my choice. I am now Supplies Queen. I know that all erasers are pink (except those white polymer ones), so that pink erasers are easy to find! I know what a 1½” 3-ring binder with an accordion folder inside is. Yes, I do! I know what a folder with brads is. Ha! I know that… sshhhh… it doesn’t always matter if what you get isn’t exactly what is specified on the list. Is it really going to matter if your child has a 2” notecard ring instead of a 1” one? No! I am so obviously Supplies Queen that I’m surprised Target hasn’t made me a crown using their construction paper (one pkg, any colour), dry erase markers (pack of 4, thick, different colours), 3” x 5” plain white index cards, 7” pointed Fiskars scissors, and Elmers glue.
But pride comes before a fall, so I must temper my self-adulation, and tell you that having a child start High School puts you right back at the bottom of the pile. You know how it felt when your child started Kindergarten or Reception, and everyone else seemed to know what was going on except you? Well, High School brings that feeling back with what might be called a vengeance.
And now, since this is 1,000 words and already too long, I’m going.
For thus it is. The longer we live here in the Midwest, the more I become me, in this life that is my life. I’m no longer constantly surprised that it is my life. I don’t spend so much mental energy on comparisons and analysis. I’ve got used to the loss of many of the things I’ve had to let go of (not all…), and I’ve got used to carrying round the new things I’ve acquired. It’s just me, here or there. I’m feeling what the French would call “dans ma peau”, meaning literally “in my skin”. Very good expression, don’t you think? It’s rather taken me by surprise, because these transitions from one location to the other, from one culture to the other, are usually rather difficult. I know, too, that homesickness is a spooky lurking beast, and can pop out unexpectedly when you round a corner, so don’t be surprised if my next post is all about how much I miss England and how miserable I am.
For the moment, however, and we all know that the moment is the best place to live, life is good and seems full of potential. Today the kids are all back at school. I am debating whether to go back to the toy shop, which is fun, but has - as I predicted - rather lost its novelty, and is appallingly badly paid. I am capable of so much more, and as Husband’s teaching schedule this year means that he would be free to do school pick-ups, I have the freedom to explore. So I am job-hunting. I applied for a job online, but logged out half way through the process. I hadn’t got round to logging back in and finishing the form, when, blow me down, quick as a wink, the next morning I woke to find they’d sent me an email saying thanks but no thanks. This serves to confirm my worst anxieties about Corporate America. Way too flash fast for plodding-along me. But I know you’re all going to tell me not to be discouraged, and yes, you’re right. I will persevere.
The other idea that’s bumbling around in my head is to do an MA. My thought process goes like this. I can do an MA for free at Husband’s university. Ooh, good deal. What do they offer that I could do and that would be interesting and useful? (You have to remember it’s a small private university with a very small graduate programme, so the answer is not going to take long.) An MBA? Well, that would certainly look good on my cv, but it looks like you can’t really do it unless you’re in a job that will let you do on-the-job projects and assessments. And an MBA? Me? Really? Moving on… Counselling and Family Therapy. No. Not for me. At least not from that side of the table. Christian Ministry? An MA in Christian Ministry? Hm… Well, I don’t want to be a Christian minister… But it does look interesting. Some of it, anyway. And what’s this bit here? “You don’t have to be preparing for ordination or Christian leadership to take this course. Many of our students sign up for their own personal development.” Ooh, sounds like me. I’ve already spoken to Husband’s colleague who runs the programme, and he said he’d be happy to have me. Wa-hey! The only snaffoo (just learnt that word, isn’t it great?) with the idea is that I have discovered that although it’s billed as a freebie for families of employees of the university, it’s a taxable benefit and therefore does have a financial implication. Given the huge fees that people pay for these kinds of courses, even just paying the tax on it is significant. Plus there's the ginormous loss of earnings that I could potentially enjoy in my new, reinvented, Iota as Corporate Princess, “who needs to fill out a whole application form, can’t you see how impressive I am from the first half?” self.
So… job or MA, job or MA, or shall I just go back to the toyshop and potter along? Options, options.
Meanwhile, back at the first day of school for my kids, I have to just tell you that I am super-impressive in the whole area of school supplies these days. Gone are the laborious hours wandering round Target, Wal-mart, Hobby Lobby, Office Max and wherever else the last person mentioned, lists clutched in sweaty hands, wondering why on earth it has to be a pink eraser, not an eraser of the colour of my choice. I am now Supplies Queen. I know that all erasers are pink (except those white polymer ones), so that pink erasers are easy to find! I know what a 1½” 3-ring binder with an accordion folder inside is. Yes, I do! I know what a folder with brads is. Ha! I know that… sshhhh… it doesn’t always matter if what you get isn’t exactly what is specified on the list. Is it really going to matter if your child has a 2” notecard ring instead of a 1” one? No! I am so obviously Supplies Queen that I’m surprised Target hasn’t made me a crown using their construction paper (one pkg, any colour), dry erase markers (pack of 4, thick, different colours), 3” x 5” plain white index cards, 7” pointed Fiskars scissors, and Elmers glue.
But pride comes before a fall, so I must temper my self-adulation, and tell you that having a child start High School puts you right back at the bottom of the pile. You know how it felt when your child started Kindergarten or Reception, and everyone else seemed to know what was going on except you? Well, High School brings that feeling back with what might be called a vengeance.
And now, since this is 1,000 words and already too long, I’m going.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
America arrives in Britain
Sharpies are in WHSmith. I love, love, love Sharpies. I can't imagine life without Sharpies. I am a Sharpie bore. Now you can get them in Smiths. Maybe I can move back to England.
I spotted Burt's Bees products in Waitrose. Burt's Bees have buzzed into this country. Yes, it probably would be ok to move back now. I'm not sure I could live without Burt's Bees products, but if Waitrose stocks them...
But here's an American import I don't like. The classification of milk.
Once upon a time, there was Gold Top and Silver Top, in glass pint bottles delivered to your door. The top of the Gold Top was what you had on your cereal, if it was your turn. The Silver Top was the ordinary stuff. Then they expanded our horizons by adding a Red Top. But life was still fairly simple. We weren't too far gone from Tess of the D'Urbeville days. Not any more. These days, buying milk is hugely complicated. Supermarkets should offer the public a short training course, and not let us loose near the milk section until we have our certificates. Organic, not organic, Jersey, Cravendale, skimmed, skammed, skummed, semi-skilled, semi-literate, semi-detached, and all those different sizes, from pint-sized to who-has-a-fridge-door-big-enough-for-this-for-heaven's-sake?-sized.
When we moved to America, it took a while to get used to milk by numbers. Whole is still whole, but semi-skimmed is marketed as "2%" and skimmed as "1%". Not too difficult, really, but I have to say, I always preferred the British terminology and enjoyed reverting to it when visiting back here. But now, it seems that the use of percentages has infiltrated Britain too. They couldn't keep it simple though, and stick to 2% and 1% (which is cope-able with, once you've got used to it). Oh no. It's got to be 1.7% and 0.1%, hasn't it? What kind of complex mathematical formulae were used to work out those?
Sharpies, yes. Burt's Bees stuff, yes. Milk by percentages, no no no no no.
.
I spotted Burt's Bees products in Waitrose. Burt's Bees have buzzed into this country. Yes, it probably would be ok to move back now. I'm not sure I could live without Burt's Bees products, but if Waitrose stocks them...
But here's an American import I don't like. The classification of milk.
Once upon a time, there was Gold Top and Silver Top, in glass pint bottles delivered to your door. The top of the Gold Top was what you had on your cereal, if it was your turn. The Silver Top was the ordinary stuff. Then they expanded our horizons by adding a Red Top. But life was still fairly simple. We weren't too far gone from Tess of the D'Urbeville days. Not any more. These days, buying milk is hugely complicated. Supermarkets should offer the public a short training course, and not let us loose near the milk section until we have our certificates. Organic, not organic, Jersey, Cravendale, skimmed, skammed, skummed, semi-skilled, semi-literate, semi-detached, and all those different sizes, from pint-sized to who-has-a-fridge-door-big-enough-for-this-for-heaven's-sake?-sized.
When we moved to America, it took a while to get used to milk by numbers. Whole is still whole, but semi-skimmed is marketed as "2%" and skimmed as "1%". Not too difficult, really, but I have to say, I always preferred the British terminology and enjoyed reverting to it when visiting back here. But now, it seems that the use of percentages has infiltrated Britain too. They couldn't keep it simple though, and stick to 2% and 1% (which is cope-able with, once you've got used to it). Oh no. It's got to be 1.7% and 0.1%, hasn't it? What kind of complex mathematical formulae were used to work out those?
Sharpies, yes. Burt's Bees stuff, yes. Milk by percentages, no no no no no.
.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The eyes have it
Enough already with the tea! (See how American I'm becoming. Not only do I know the lingo, but I can bring myself to express a sentiment that surely, surely no honest-to-goodness Brit would ever genuinely feel.) Yes, time to move the blog on to other matters. Life through the eyes of a first grade girl.
Husband and I are very short-sighted. Physically, not metaphorically. Well, probably metaphorically as well, since we moved to America with neither the intention of staying long-term, nor any return strategy. Americans call it 'near-sighted' if you're talking about eyes, and 'short-sighted' if you're talking about a plan. I think we Brits use 'short-sighted' for both. I don't think we really use the term 'near-sighted'. Oh my goodness, the tolerance that you lovely Bloggy Peeps have for the useless trivia on this blog never fails to astound me.
Anyway, any old way, where was I? Yes. Husband and I are both short-sighted, so no surprise then, that our oldest is already in glasses (he of the perfect teeth, but you can't hope to have everything). 10-yo, has good eyesight, but 6-yo has been complaining about having blurry vision, so I thought we should get her eyes tested. I did take the blurry vision with a pinch of salt though, since there's no evidence that she can't see perfectly well (and her teacher confirmed this). It also just so happens that her best friend's Dad is an optician (or whatever the longer, more complicated term that we're meant to use these days is) and her best friend has just got glasses.
In fact it turns out that glasses are all the rage for girls in first grade. They are desirable, sought after, coveted, fashionable. We have come a long way since my day, when glasses were to be dreaded, and delayed until no amount of screwing up of your eyes could get you to make out the teacher's scrawl on the blackboard. But then glasses are so much better. No more those heavy lenses in unattractive NHS plastic frames, where your only choice was pink, blue, white or tortoiseshell. These days, glasses are lightweight, comfortable, attractive - easy on the eyes in all senses.
So we went along to the optician, and 6-yo had the full range of tests, one small part of which, these days, is reading some letters off a display. When it got to that part, 6-yo managed the big letter at the top confidently, and then stopped. The optician clicked to make the chart bigger... and then bigger... and then bigger... but even when the letters were all huge, 6-yo sat in silence. "Uh oh", I thought, "she's foxing. She really does want to wear glasses. How are we going to get past this?" The optician tried another set of letters, and again, 6-yo managed the first letter, but stalled at the second row, and sat in silence, no matter how much larger the optician made them. She tried one more chart. Still the same pattern - the reading of the first letter and then no more. At this point, 6-yo gave a small shrug and said "I don't think I know these words".
Because in first grade, they're still doing words like about, and under, and should, and they haven't got onto more difficult ones like zfdax, and lvceno. Shame on them.
Well, it turned out that 6-yo has a very slight prescription, but only very slight. The nice optician said they could certainly make up glasses for us, but he said that quite honestly, our best bet was to go to Claire's in the mall, where you can buy non-prescription glasses for $10.00. So that's what we did (and in fact they were $8.50). The upside of this strategy is that we have saved probably a couple of hundred dollars. The downside is that 6-yo now knows of the existence of Claire's, a knowledge which so far I had deliberately kept away from her innocent mind. However, that aside, it was a happy solution. The frames are dark blue, with tiny flowers on them. 6-yo is thrilled with them, and I nearly die of cute attack every time she puts them on. She wears them to school, having sworn me to secrecy on the fact that they're non-prescription (which is the term we prefer to the unkind and metaphysically incorrect 'not real'). She's made a sneaky discovery since she's had them. Turns out that at least one other bespectacled first grade girl is wearing non-prescriptions too. Sshhh...
Friday, September 17, 2010
Words, words, words
Words, words, words. There are so many of them that just don't translate quite exactly from British English to American English. Here are four that have troubled me this week.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Garage Sale: Part ll
Hallowe’en was a lovely sunny day, which was just as well, as it really was the last chance we’d have at a sale. November just doesn’t seem right for a garage sale. I’d got everything ready in advance – priced and set out on borrowed trestle tables. At a little before 8.00am, I opened the garage door, to find that our neighbours had had the same 'last chance for a garage sale' idea. Perfect! Twice as many signs out, twice the air of busy-ness, a much bigger feel to the event! They hadn’t had a sale for 9 years, and we’d never had one. What were the chances of coinciding?
I started the day by going into the red. The neighbours’ sale included a Christmas decoration I’d always admired on their front lawn, a reindeer made of sticks with lights twined round it, a steal at $3. My neighbour did warn me that it was a nuisance, as it blew over very easily in the wind, but I reckoned we could think of a way round that. I’d sent Husband out to put up the signs, and he’d come back with a couple of Starbucks coffees which I thought we should also put down as costs of the sale, so that sunk us a little lower into debit. Then 9-yo discovered that the next door kids were selling hot chocolate at 50 cents a cup, from a big urn, and he started running up quite a total, until my kindly neighbour decreed that refills were free (which didn’t address the paediatric health issue of hot chocolate on tap, but did help reduce our incidental out-goings). I was beginning to wonder if we were we going to spend more than we made.
But it wasn’t long before the people started coming, and the money started dropping into my apron pocket. I’d priced things low, as I really didn’t want to be left with a whole lot of unsold stuff. But with the competition next door, and judging the responses of the first few browsers, I realized that the prices were too high, so I quickly went round with a sharpie and some more sticky labels. Now I’ve done a garage sale, I would say the key is to price down. We all love a bargain. People often asked me if I’d take a lower price, and I always said yes. Or I’d try and put together a compromise. If they wanted to pay a dollar for a jigsaw with a $2 price label on, I’d pick up a second one, and ask “how about a dollar fifty for two?” And then as they hesitated, I’d say “it’s hardly been used, and it’s a cute picture… look… Teletubbies… yup, VERY popular…”
As the day wore on, I noticed I got better at selling. At first I was all British – standing back and giving people the freedom to browse without being pestered (how many blogs have I read where Americans in Britain misunderstand this beautiful respectful distance as poor customer service!) But as time went by, I got friendlier, and chattier, and of course the more you engage people, the more you sell. If I’d thought to charge a dime for every time I answered a question about my accent, I’d have raised my takings considerably.
I really enjoyed the day. I loved meeting all those people – such a variety. Mostly I think they were folk at a loose end, wanting to get out and about, and stopping by for a browse just for fun. But some were clearly seasoned sale experts, who came up, assessed what was on offer, weren’t interested in small talk (not even with my accent!), and headed off, I’m sure, on a trail to many other sales. There was the occasional person who came in search of something specific – books, or toys for visiting grandchildren, or particular items of furniture. Then there were the Hispanic families, coming with one roll of carefully counted bills, choosing slowly between items, and telling their children in Spanish “no, not that, not today”. I threw in extra discounts for them, and I wanted to say “I’m more like you than you know; I don’t belong here either”, but of course I didn’t.
The garage sale was cathartic. It was good to clear out old toys and unused stuff. We thought we’d had a thorough sort-out only 3 years ago, when we moved to America, but it’s amazing how much we'd brought with us, and how much more we’d grown out of as a family in those 3 years. There was an emotional moment or two for me. In fact my very first sale was of a soft toy which I was particularly fond of. It was called a ‘glitter bug’, and was an insect of some description, with sparkly wings and boggly eyes, which giggled when you pressed its abdomen. Or maybe its thorax. Anyway… an older couple handed over their cash (grandparents, I thought), and I was musing fondly to myself how nice it was that the glitter bug would find a new home and a new purpose entertaining other small children as it had so often entertained mine, when the wife said to me “the dog will like that one - we have to go round sales to pick up toys cheaply, he gets through so many of them - he’s a terrible chewer”. Alas, poor glitter bug.
One moment I really enjoyed was when I’d got chatting to a man, and he suddenly seemed to take a mental step back from it all. Maybe he was a blogger. He gave a little laugh, and said,
“I don’t know why we all do this. It’s an odd kind of a way to spend a Saturday, isn’t it? I don’t really need anything else in my house. I’ve got too much stuffed in there as it is. Look, I’ve bought these from the sale next door, but I don’t really want them, do I?”
I looked at the set of three wooden bowls, nesting one inside the other.
“Well, you bought them because you liked them” I said, encouragingly. “And they’re nice, I think.”
“Here, you have one, then”, he said, handing me the smallest of the three. I protested that they were a set, and that, really, they were his, but he insisted. So I acquired a pretty little wooden bowl, and shared a moment of ironic self-critique with a stranger. Lovely.
Oh, and I have to tell you about my favourite triumph of the day. We had been given, at some point, various items of bedding that a friend didn’t want. It was brand new and in its packaging. Now, American bedding is a real mystery, as many an English expat here will testify. Not only are the words different (comforters, shams, European shams), but the sizes are different, and indeed the whole concept is different. I still haven’t really worked it out. So I hadn’t looked very carefully at the Ralph Lauren white and gold item, because I assumed it would be some alien article, which wouldn’t fit our beds. I added it to the garage sale, and, since it was brand new and Ralph Lauren, and with the original price tag still visible, I deviated from my pricing policy, and put quite a high price on it. There hadn’t been much interest in it, but then towards the end of the day, a woman decided she liked it. She tried to negotiate the price down, and I was going to agree, but she made the mistake of asking if she could open the packet. She got the thing out, and lo and behold, it was a duvet cover. A common or garden duvet cover. Moreover it looked about right for a king size duvet, AND it was extremely nice – lovely quality cotton and an elegant pattern. So I threw my newfound sales skills into reverse, gears crunching, dug in, and stuck to the original price. For a few horrible moments, I thought the potential purchaser was going to cave in and say “oh, ok then”, and buy the thing. By now, I was really really keen on it, but acting casual, and, phew, she was distracted by her sister who was loading our old office chair (priced at $15, sold for $5) into the car.
All in all, the sale was a big success. Husband and I idled the day away, chatting to customers and enjoying the sunshine. We made about $200, acquired a reindeer, a small wooden bowl, and (effectively) a Ralph Lauren duvet cover. It was hard work, but therapeutic too. We were left with only three small cardboard boxes of stuff, and I felt the house had been purged.
It occurs to me that holding a garage sale is, in some respects, like blogging. You rummage through your personal things, and put a selection out on display for complete strangers to come and nose through, and – amazingly – they find value in some of them.
.
I started the day by going into the red. The neighbours’ sale included a Christmas decoration I’d always admired on their front lawn, a reindeer made of sticks with lights twined round it, a steal at $3. My neighbour did warn me that it was a nuisance, as it blew over very easily in the wind, but I reckoned we could think of a way round that. I’d sent Husband out to put up the signs, and he’d come back with a couple of Starbucks coffees which I thought we should also put down as costs of the sale, so that sunk us a little lower into debit. Then 9-yo discovered that the next door kids were selling hot chocolate at 50 cents a cup, from a big urn, and he started running up quite a total, until my kindly neighbour decreed that refills were free (which didn’t address the paediatric health issue of hot chocolate on tap, but did help reduce our incidental out-goings). I was beginning to wonder if we were we going to spend more than we made.
But it wasn’t long before the people started coming, and the money started dropping into my apron pocket. I’d priced things low, as I really didn’t want to be left with a whole lot of unsold stuff. But with the competition next door, and judging the responses of the first few browsers, I realized that the prices were too high, so I quickly went round with a sharpie and some more sticky labels. Now I’ve done a garage sale, I would say the key is to price down. We all love a bargain. People often asked me if I’d take a lower price, and I always said yes. Or I’d try and put together a compromise. If they wanted to pay a dollar for a jigsaw with a $2 price label on, I’d pick up a second one, and ask “how about a dollar fifty for two?” And then as they hesitated, I’d say “it’s hardly been used, and it’s a cute picture… look… Teletubbies… yup, VERY popular…”
As the day wore on, I noticed I got better at selling. At first I was all British – standing back and giving people the freedom to browse without being pestered (how many blogs have I read where Americans in Britain misunderstand this beautiful respectful distance as poor customer service!) But as time went by, I got friendlier, and chattier, and of course the more you engage people, the more you sell. If I’d thought to charge a dime for every time I answered a question about my accent, I’d have raised my takings considerably.
I really enjoyed the day. I loved meeting all those people – such a variety. Mostly I think they were folk at a loose end, wanting to get out and about, and stopping by for a browse just for fun. But some were clearly seasoned sale experts, who came up, assessed what was on offer, weren’t interested in small talk (not even with my accent!), and headed off, I’m sure, on a trail to many other sales. There was the occasional person who came in search of something specific – books, or toys for visiting grandchildren, or particular items of furniture. Then there were the Hispanic families, coming with one roll of carefully counted bills, choosing slowly between items, and telling their children in Spanish “no, not that, not today”. I threw in extra discounts for them, and I wanted to say “I’m more like you than you know; I don’t belong here either”, but of course I didn’t.
The garage sale was cathartic. It was good to clear out old toys and unused stuff. We thought we’d had a thorough sort-out only 3 years ago, when we moved to America, but it’s amazing how much we'd brought with us, and how much more we’d grown out of as a family in those 3 years. There was an emotional moment or two for me. In fact my very first sale was of a soft toy which I was particularly fond of. It was called a ‘glitter bug’, and was an insect of some description, with sparkly wings and boggly eyes, which giggled when you pressed its abdomen. Or maybe its thorax. Anyway… an older couple handed over their cash (grandparents, I thought), and I was musing fondly to myself how nice it was that the glitter bug would find a new home and a new purpose entertaining other small children as it had so often entertained mine, when the wife said to me “the dog will like that one - we have to go round sales to pick up toys cheaply, he gets through so many of them - he’s a terrible chewer”. Alas, poor glitter bug.
One moment I really enjoyed was when I’d got chatting to a man, and he suddenly seemed to take a mental step back from it all. Maybe he was a blogger. He gave a little laugh, and said,
“I don’t know why we all do this. It’s an odd kind of a way to spend a Saturday, isn’t it? I don’t really need anything else in my house. I’ve got too much stuffed in there as it is. Look, I’ve bought these from the sale next door, but I don’t really want them, do I?”
I looked at the set of three wooden bowls, nesting one inside the other.
“Well, you bought them because you liked them” I said, encouragingly. “And they’re nice, I think.”
“Here, you have one, then”, he said, handing me the smallest of the three. I protested that they were a set, and that, really, they were his, but he insisted. So I acquired a pretty little wooden bowl, and shared a moment of ironic self-critique with a stranger. Lovely.
Oh, and I have to tell you about my favourite triumph of the day. We had been given, at some point, various items of bedding that a friend didn’t want. It was brand new and in its packaging. Now, American bedding is a real mystery, as many an English expat here will testify. Not only are the words different (comforters, shams, European shams), but the sizes are different, and indeed the whole concept is different. I still haven’t really worked it out. So I hadn’t looked very carefully at the Ralph Lauren white and gold item, because I assumed it would be some alien article, which wouldn’t fit our beds. I added it to the garage sale, and, since it was brand new and Ralph Lauren, and with the original price tag still visible, I deviated from my pricing policy, and put quite a high price on it. There hadn’t been much interest in it, but then towards the end of the day, a woman decided she liked it. She tried to negotiate the price down, and I was going to agree, but she made the mistake of asking if she could open the packet. She got the thing out, and lo and behold, it was a duvet cover. A common or garden duvet cover. Moreover it looked about right for a king size duvet, AND it was extremely nice – lovely quality cotton and an elegant pattern. So I threw my newfound sales skills into reverse, gears crunching, dug in, and stuck to the original price. For a few horrible moments, I thought the potential purchaser was going to cave in and say “oh, ok then”, and buy the thing. By now, I was really really keen on it, but acting casual, and, phew, she was distracted by her sister who was loading our old office chair (priced at $15, sold for $5) into the car.
All in all, the sale was a big success. Husband and I idled the day away, chatting to customers and enjoying the sunshine. We made about $200, acquired a reindeer, a small wooden bowl, and (effectively) a Ralph Lauren duvet cover. It was hard work, but therapeutic too. We were left with only three small cardboard boxes of stuff, and I felt the house had been purged.
It occurs to me that holding a garage sale is, in some respects, like blogging. You rummage through your personal things, and put a selection out on display for complete strangers to come and nose through, and – amazingly – they find value in some of them.
.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Garage Sale: Part l
Now the weather is warming up, as you drive around, you see small rectangular signs sprouting up in the grass alongside the roadway. They’ve lain dormant all winter, but the arrival of spring brings them out, and they’ll flourish in steady number right through until autumn becomes winter. The size, colour and composition of the signs vary, but the species can be recognized by one common factor: they all have the word ‘SALE’ clearly visible. It’s garage sale season again.
It is said that Britain is a nation of shop-keepers (I never understood why), but truly America is a nation that loves to buy and sell. I suppose the nearest equivalent to the garage sale in Britain would be the car boot sale, and that’s the perfect illustration of how much less comfortable British people are with the boundaries of their homes being crossed. An Englishman’s home is indeed his castle (so we’re a nation of shop-keepers in castles?), and if we want to sell our stuff, we take it to a disused airfield or similar large open space, and put it on display on tables. Sitting in our fold-away chairs alongside lots of other people doing the same thing, we enjoy anonymity and safety in numbers. Not so the Americans. They’re quite happy to sit on their own front driveway, with strangers picking over their goods and chattels, or in their garage if the weather is bad, or even to hold the sale inside their house.
There are three levels of domestic sale (as far as I’ve been able to work out). The first is the yard sale, which really might be just a table of goods, with a hopeful child sitting behind it, aspiring to make a few cents from their cast-off toys and their mother’s unloved crockery. Then there’s the garage sale, which is the same sort of idea, but on a bigger scale. There will be a few tables of bits and pieces, and probably some pieces offurniture and larger items. Of course what has happened is that nobody wants to say they’re having a yard sale, at least not on the sign, because it sounds less worth a visit than a garage sale, so now everything in these two categories is a garage sale. (It’s the same principle behind retailers only ever selling food or drink in the sizes regular, large, or absolutely blooming enormous, because who wants to buy a small?) The original distinction has been lost, though people do still talk of ‘yard sales’.
Then, further up the sale scale, there’s the estate sale. The estate sale happens when a house is being emptied out, after a death, or a downsizing, perhaps. If you see a sign to an estate sale, you’re talking big items:furniture , electrical goods, household items, and so forth, with probably a large amount of smaller stuff in there as well. An estate sale will always involve going inside the house, so it’s a good opportunity for snooping neighbours as well as bargain hunters.
You never know what you’re going to see at a garage sale. It really is the case that people put out everything and anything. Typically there are clothes, crockery, glass-ware, vases, toys, games, Christmas or Hallowe’en decorations, chairs, tables, lamps, suitcases, rugs, books, garden tools. You name it. At one estate sale, I saw an old printing press for sale, and a pair of leather lederhosen. The range of the quality is as varied as the range of the items themselves. Some of the stuff is brand new, in unopened packaging. Some of it is chipped or bent or dirty, and frankly you can’t imagine why anyone would want it for free, let alone pay money for it. I’m not exaggerating when I say that at one sale (the printing press and lederhosen one, actually), the bathroom cupboard was open, and there were half-used packets of cotton buds for sale, and pots of face cream (I’m assuming unused, though they weren’t sealed – I didn’t investigate too closely).
This being America, if there is buying and selling going on, there is room for a middleman. So there are small local businesses who will run your estate sale for you, and these build up certain reputations. Round here, if you see the pink sign for an 'Estate Sale by Helen', I’m told it means that you can rely on the items there being high-end and good quality – but pricey. Others have more of a reputation as being good for a bargain. I’ve heard, though, that it’s a mixed blessing getting one of these businesses in. Yes, it saves you the hassle of running your own sale, but they retain the right to bring unsold goods from other sales into your sale. So your house becomes the showroom for other people’s wares. Though I suppose it’s swings and roundabouts, because your stuff in turn might be taken to do the rounds elsewhere.
Garage sales always seem well-attended. There’s always a line of cars parked outside the house, and a steady trickle of people heading in or out. At week-ends, a garage sale will typically open at 8.00am, but on week-days, I’m told they open up at 7.00 or even 6.30. The good stuff goes early, they say, but of course it depends what you’re looking for. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure… Or meat... Orpoison .
I haven’t been to many sales. Occasionally, I’ve stopped at one in the neighbourhood, and given the kids a dollar to spend on a toy for fun. I once saw a glider (swing seat) as I drove by a sale, and stopped to buy it – something of a bargain at $20, though it did need some attention. I’ve walked round a few just because I was initially rather intrigued by the phenomenon, and wanted to see what they were like. I also wanted to pick up some tips and get the confidence to run our own garage sale, which we did last year on 31st October, Hallowe’en, and which I’ll tell you about in the next post.
It is said that Britain is a nation of shop-keepers (I never understood why), but truly America is a nation that loves to buy and sell. I suppose the nearest equivalent to the garage sale in Britain would be the car boot sale, and that’s the perfect illustration of how much less comfortable British people are with the boundaries of their homes being crossed. An Englishman’s home is indeed his castle (so we’re a nation of shop-keepers in castles?), and if we want to sell our stuff, we take it to a disused airfield or similar large open space, and put it on display on tables. Sitting in our fold-away chairs alongside lots of other people doing the same thing, we enjoy anonymity and safety in numbers. Not so the Americans. They’re quite happy to sit on their own front driveway, with strangers picking over their goods and chattels, or in their garage if the weather is bad, or even to hold the sale inside their house.
There are three levels of domestic sale (as far as I’ve been able to work out). The first is the yard sale, which really might be just a table of goods, with a hopeful child sitting behind it, aspiring to make a few cents from their cast-off toys and their mother’s unloved crockery. Then there’s the garage sale, which is the same sort of idea, but on a bigger scale. There will be a few tables of bits and pieces, and probably some pieces of
Then, further up the sale scale, there’s the estate sale. The estate sale happens when a house is being emptied out, after a death, or a downsizing, perhaps. If you see a sign to an estate sale, you’re talking big items:
You never know what you’re going to see at a garage sale. It really is the case that people put out everything and anything. Typically there are clothes, crockery, glass-ware, vases, toys, games, Christmas or Hallowe’en decorations, chairs, tables, lamps, suitcases, rugs, books, garden tools. You name it. At one estate sale, I saw an old printing press for sale, and a pair of leather lederhosen. The range of the quality is as varied as the range of the items themselves. Some of the stuff is brand new, in unopened packaging. Some of it is chipped or bent or dirty, and frankly you can’t imagine why anyone would want it for free, let alone pay money for it. I’m not exaggerating when I say that at one sale (the printing press and lederhosen one, actually), the bathroom cupboard was open, and there were half-used packets of cotton buds for sale, and pots of face cream (I’m assuming unused, though they weren’t sealed – I didn’t investigate too closely).
This being America, if there is buying and selling going on, there is room for a middleman. So there are small local businesses who will run your estate sale for you, and these build up certain reputations. Round here, if you see the pink sign for an 'Estate Sale by Helen', I’m told it means that you can rely on the items there being high-end and good quality – but pricey. Others have more of a reputation as being good for a bargain. I’ve heard, though, that it’s a mixed blessing getting one of these businesses in. Yes, it saves you the hassle of running your own sale, but they retain the right to bring unsold goods from other sales into your sale. So your house becomes the showroom for other people’s wares. Though I suppose it’s swings and roundabouts, because your stuff in turn might be taken to do the rounds elsewhere.
Garage sales always seem well-attended. There’s always a line of cars parked outside the house, and a steady trickle of people heading in or out. At week-ends, a garage sale will typically open at 8.00am, but on week-days, I’m told they open up at 7.00 or even 6.30. The good stuff goes early, they say, but of course it depends what you’re looking for. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure… Or meat... Or
I haven’t been to many sales. Occasionally, I’ve stopped at one in the neighbourhood, and given the kids a dollar to spend on a toy for fun. I once saw a glider (swing seat) as I drove by a sale, and stopped to buy it – something of a bargain at $20, though it did need some attention. I’ve walked round a few just because I was initially rather intrigued by the phenomenon, and wanted to see what they were like. I also wanted to pick up some tips and get the confidence to run our own garage sale, which we did last year on 31st October, Hallowe’en, and which I’ll tell you about in the next post.
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