A portrait of my Granddad.

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I've never been to a proper antique's sale before until today.

I knew of their existence, though, because since I've been back in Scotland the most exciting part of my daily routine is when Bargain Hunt comes on.

But car-boot sales were about as posh as I'd experienced, and car-boots aren't ever that posh, unless they have their own burger van- that's down right elitist! Many people don't even have Hunter wellies to help them squelch about the make-shift soggy, aisles, bordered by over-spilling mounds of cheap plastic objects at around 20p a pop.

But I still find them very alluring, in a way probably similar to that of gambling. To survive in a maze of unwanted possessions you have to be convinced that somewhere, under the naked Action Men, is a lucrative treasure. Perhaps someone cluelessly selling a Leica for a couple of quid. For me, last time, it was one of those diner-style coffee machines, which made watery, plastic flavoured coffee.

But coming back to today, it was rather different. Real things. Real and expensive things that you'd want to buy and each and every stall-holder new exactly what was up. But no-one holds a stall as brilliantly as my Granddad does.

With a sharp Bamber Bridge wit he banters with the punters by asking them if they're finished touching his stuff and are you gonna buy owt, or not?. And when people decline he calls them a tight bugger. But it seems to work, though, and has maybe gained him some notoriety amongst the regulars- he even has his own seat at the auction house.

But that doesn't make me laugh as much as the thought of someone caught unawares by this seemingly ruthless, but entirely jovial manner.