On Sunday addedentry and I sold lots of junk at a car boot sale, and made about £40 profit after the cost of the pitch. Usually the problem with car boot sales is that if they're any good I'll buy as much junk as we sell, but this time I resisted and only bought two skirts (total cost: £1.50). Short skirts, so they don't take up too much space. I nearly bought an earrings-and-necklace set from the wild-haired man with the enormous grin, as much because he was nice as because the earrings were rather cool, but I forgot in all the hustle and bustle of haggling. I grinned back a lot, though, from across the tables. About five minutes before the end I went and sold an enormous wooden ornamental salad-fork to a man who was selling various other enormous wooden things, for 50p. "It'll go better with your stuff," I said. There are some things you just can't cart around with you any longer than absolutely necessary, and two-foot wooden forks are definitely one of those things.

I'm always surprised that clothes sell so badly at car boot sales, probably because I've bought so many of my clothes at carboots and flea-markets -- not quite every time I'm down in the dumps, but close, and yes, I know it shows. (At least in the winter I've got the excuse that I am getting dressed in the dark, but now the clocks have gone forward I'll have to either smarten up my act or think of a better excuse.) The scarlet crushed-velvet skirt-suit that I wore for my second Oxford interview (the successful one) came from Loughborough's bric-à-brac market; I remember seeing it hanging there in the corner with £9 written on a white label, and I knew I had to buy it. It didn't bring me luck, but it brought me confidence, which was probably more useful.



Today I got dressed twice, once in trousers to cycle to the bike shop, and then (when I'd walked home, leaving the bike to be fixed) into a skirt before driving to work. It's so much more awkward to wear a skirt if I'm cycling, but I like to wear them occasionally, just for the hell of it. It doesn't feel so much like 'dressing up' as a girl, any more. (I've been re-reading Tamora Pierce's Song of the Lioness quartet, and wondering if there have been any stories about boys who dressed as girls to go and seek their fortune. Perhaps I should write one.)

I've just remembered, though, I forgot to ring the shoe-shop to see if they can fix the shoes I took in on Saturday. Nobody seems to sell black lace-up ankle-boots any more, so if they can't fix them, I'll have to pretend to be fashionable instead. Or just wear shoes that let the rain in. Most of my clothes let something in somewhere around the seams: rain, or air, or ways I used to think I wanted to look.

Time to get my flat-soled trainers on (slipping them on and off under the desk is probably a bad habit, but only a mild one) and go home. The sky's dark and bright all at once, and I'm dressed for winter, but even thick grey tights can't stop it being spring.