ONE man’s junk is definitely another man’s treasure if the car boot sale I went to at the weekend is anything to go by.
I had no idea what to expect when we packed up the car on Sunday with unwanted Christ-mas presents and stuff displaced by our house renovation.
But I had high enough hopes for the profits to get out of bed at 3.30am for the 5am start.
We hadn’t even set up shop before people started diving into our boxes, which I naively thought was promising until I was warned they were looking for mobile phones and jewellery to sell for double the price on their own stalls.
But we had something for everyone except those who were trying to rip us off and soon enough the pennies started to roll in.
It is amazing what people will buy. The first thing to go was a ceramic frog (don’t ask), closely followed by a pair of Dr Who slippers, a make-up set and a cream tin jug.
Most of our stuff was either brand new or barely used and I had even taken the time to clean ornaments and put new candles in various holders, but I noticed the stalls that did particularly well were the ones selling filthy tat like half-dressed Barbies with matted hair.
My stubborn streak lost us a few sales. I am all for a bit of bartering, but it is a bit ridiculous when someone who probably has one of those huge TVs at home, won’t even pay £2.50 for a clock that is clearly worth loads more.
Call me tight but I had the ‘new front door fund’ to think about.
We probably raised enough for the hinges and handles, but it was great fun and now that I have got the car boot bug, we should have the rest of it in no time.

EMMA HAKIER

I AM one of those people who will happily take back faulty goods, ask for a discount if there’s a scuff on a new top and complain in a restaurant if my food is cold.

But sit me in a hair salon and I turn into a quivering wreck.

They could shave my locks off, dye it green or give me a dodgy perm and my reaction would always be the same “oooh it’s lovely, so much better than before.”

But when I went for my usual cut and highlights (yes, I’m no natural blonde, shock) my black roots were more prominent than ever before and it was patchier than an antique quilt.

Now as said earlier, I’m no wimp.

A few weeks ago I dragged my friend into a chain fashion shop and demanded an exchange when the sole on one of her boots dropped off in the middle of York city centre.

Yes she had worn them every day since before Christmas, didn’t have the receipt and the shop had actually stopped stocking them – but that’s not the point. They were faulty and she should quote consumer rights.

And forget about the day I got my degree or my first job – my mum’s proudest moment was when I proudly came home from a trip to Marks & Spencers with five bottles of posh bubble bath that had been wrongly priced-up at 3p instead of £3.

Never mind the ‘honest mistake’ rubbish – “it’s the law don’t you know, you have to sell it at that price,” my 14-year-old self spouted to the cashier.

I am destined for a career at Watchdog.

But when I went in to complain with my practised speech at the ready, I’d never been so nervous.

Luckily, the manager took one look at my roots and booked me in to get it fixed... with the same hairdresser.

And as I sat down in front of the mirror to get my hair re-done last week I was apologetic and ridiculous.

Luckily, she was lovely and fixed me up properly – but you won’t see me back there again, I’m far to much of a sissy.

Lindsay Pantry

THE editorial team had an extra newshound on Friday – one of the waggy tailed variety.

The friendly little fellow followed one of our reporters to work, then caused us all to panic when he decided to play chicken with the oncoming traffic on George Street. After weaving between swerving cars and leaping all over shoppers trying to get into the Ridings, there was no option but to bring him into the office out of harm’s way (or so we told the powers-that-be).

It funny how dogs almost seem to bring some kind of happy drug with them.

As he trotted around reception and advertising, then settled in with his fellow newshounds in the newsroom for the majority of the morning, his affectionate licks and excitable leaps in the air had everyone smiling and laughing.

Kind of like when they bring dogs in to old people’s homes to cheer up the sick and senile. Probably says a lot about us here really.

After trying to persuade our mean editor that we should keep him as the Wakefield Express mascot, we reluctantly called the dog warden after a fruitless search for his owner.

The dog wasn’t collared, or chipped – so when the wardens turned up, it broke a few hearts in the office, as we waved goodbye to our new friend and tried not to think about him ending up on Doggie Death Row.

So if anyone has lost or wants to adopt a sprightly, staffy cross, about four years old, male with a penchant for bacon sandwiches and getting friendly with the ladies, do get in touch with Springfield Kennels in Ossett.

The team here at the Express would love to be reassured he has gone to a loving home.

Lisa Bradley

NIGHTS out can either be made or ruined by dodgy characters who you encounter in the pub.

Last week a few of us from the office went out for some drinks after work, before the bank holiday weekend.

Of course we had all spent a hard week reporting, so we didn’t plan on staying out too late – but the couple of us that made it past 10pm had a great and very humorous conversation with a very entertaining music fan outside The Hop.

It mostly consisted of us laughing (with him of course) at his enthusiastic, if a little off-key, performances of his favourite songs by his “favourite band in the whole world”, as he kept informing us.

He then rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of the band on his arm. I won’t say which band it was, so as not to humiliate the poor fan – but I’m sure he’s probably guessed I’m talking about him.

Anyway – he was a real ‘character’ and perfect for a random night in the pub.

Then over the bank holiday weekend, I was lucky enough to have another night out.

This time a semi-surprise birthday party in Sheffield. It was only half a surprise because I told my boyfriend he had to organise it, so I kind of knew all along about the plans. But I had a great time when all of my friends turned up to celebrate me turning one year older.

Apart from when another mysterious ‘character’ decided it was hilarious to stand on my friend’s foot with his big size 12s and make her ankle swell up to twice its original size. He then told me to smile when I gave him one of my glaring looks of disapproval.

That kind of ‘character’ is not funny and not clever. The first guy was a laugh. The other was just an idiot – there’s a big difference.

Louise Hall

WE hear so much about how, during the dark days of the Second World War, everyone pulled together and helped one another to survive.
The Dunkirk spirit became a well-used epithet to describe the tendency of the British public to muck in and overcome all hardship in the face of adversity
I’m not saying this week’s bad weather should be viewed with the same gravity, but there was certainly a lack of such spirit as far as the experiences of a good friend of mine were concerned.
On Monday lunchtime she was driving along Wrenthorpe Lane, near the Pot Oil pub in her little blue Vauxhall Corsa, when the tyre blew out. Being a resourceful soul she dug out the spare wheel and prepared to change the tyre despite being in the midst of a driving blizzard.
But despite her best efforts she hit a snag when the jack malfunctioned and the wing nuts on the wheel proved to be too tight to remove with her frozen fingers.
In desperation she rang the AA – a member for six years and never a callout – only to be told they weren’t responding to calls that day.
But that’s not what really upset her. While struggling at the side of the road, five people walked by, all of them male. Most ignored her, the only exception being a couple of young lads who commented on her bad luck and walked past laughing.
Running out of options she managed to contact her elderly father who came down with a new jack and helped her change the wheel.
If you were one of those who walked by on Monday without so much as a care for the poor woman struggling, shame on you. As I’m sure your grandparents would say, did they but know: “It wouldn’t have happened in my day” and I’m sure it wouldn’t have either.
Julie Marshall

BRING back Swap Shop! In the wake of the BBC’s decision to bring back Top Of The Pops this Christmas (did it actually go away?), let’s have a campaign to bring back every great show from the 1980s or even the 1990s.
Imagine the TV schedules if we did. Innocence could be brought back to our screen with such classics as The Banana Splits. Get rid of the gender-bending Teletubbies! Bring back Button Moon and The Clangers and lose this Japanese anime that seems to clog our daytime telly.
Classic programmes could restore our collective belief in television as a mode of entertainment for the masses, and not as a mouthpiece for Russell Brand.
Imagine The Krypton Factor in the Noughties. It would be brilliant. Not only would it get kids and adults active again (as who wouldn’t love to complete the assault course in the fastest time possible?), it would give Gordon Burns another crack at the whip. Man against machine. It’s simple, fun and great to watch.
There are obvious faults in the theory, as anyone who has seen the remake of the sublime Gladiators will agree. But if the format is stuck to, then away it goes. There are so many possiblities available to the current producers of such tosh as I’m a Celebrity ... like the new Challenge Anneka. Fearne Cotton could present it, maybe with Chris Moyles in the studio. The ratings would be huge.
We need a move back to entertainment, not celebrity focus as, after all, we watch it, we pay for it, so we should be on it? People are much funnier than TV executives like to admit. Who can’t help but love Deal Or No Deal? A simple 1980s format with a 1980s host, but focused on the contestant. And Noel Edmonds is back with a bang. I wonder when Mr Blobby will join him?
Oh wait, he has ... his name is Johnny Vegas.
 BEN HEWISON

HEN nights. The very idea of them fills me with utter horror and dread.
When anyone even mentions it to me, all I can think of is staggering groups of women dressed as Wonder Woman or brides-to-be with a bit of netted curtain on their heads and L plates stuck to their chests.
Every one I’ve ever been to has found me cringing in a corner, apart from my big sister’s 13 years ago when I passed out in the gutter outside a Yates. Nice.
But I was 17 then. I’m 30 now. And with my forthcoming nuptials, it appears I have to subject myself to a night of sheer humiliation in order to celebrate my “last night of freedom” which in itself is a bit of a joke since I have been living with my fiance for three years and have a child with him.
But with the Westgate Run beckoning its skeletal finger, not unlike the grim reaper, I either  charge into the breach head down and hope for the best, or I try and organise something a bit more low key before it all spirals out of control.
But have you ever tried sorting a party for all your friends without leaving anyone out? By the time my bridesmaids had compiled their lists I was looking at a hen night of 30. For crying out loud. There won’t be enough Wonder Woman outfits to go round. But how can you say to mates who ring up asking about your hen night that you don’t value their friendship enough to invite them?
Plus trying to book accommodation for hen parties is akin to telling them you want to invite The Who over for a student party.
After hyperventilating for half an hour and developing an eye twitch, I decided to do the mature and grown up thing. Lie to them all and say I’m not doing anything. What I’m actually doing is having a night in with my bridesmaids on the sofa with The Lost Boys and Lost Boys 2 box set, a crate of wine and a childfree Sunday lie in. And that’s the new rock and roll.
LISA ROOKES

Would you pay £4.50 to go to a shop and cafe? How about £9 if there were two of you? Or even £57.75 if you were feeling particularly flush? Thought not.
So, when my husband and I made a detour to Nostell Priory on Sunday with the intention of nipping to the gift shop and grabbing a coffee before heading on to celebrate his grandfather’s 92nd birthday, we were shocked to be told we would have to pay.
At a price of £4.50 per adult, it would have cost the two of us £9 to go into the shop and buy a box of National Trust branded biscuits and a card for the birthday boy. To be honest, with my experience of National Trust prices I suspect the coffee and gifts would have more than covered the cost of admittance. But as we were told by the Nostell staff member, as there was no supervisor working that day, her ‘hands were tied’. To be fair, we must have had that sneaky look some people get before they run off into a rose garden without paying. We definitely had the deviant look of a couple about to rampage through a stately home without a valid ticket.
But then the cheerful staff member made an excellent suggestion. As we wanted to pop into the gift shop and spend our hard-earned cash on vastly overpriced goods, why not sign up as National Trust members? I didn’t bother stopping to find out how much this cost, but a quick look on the internet reliably informed me it would have been a bargain price of £57.75 for a joint membership, and individual membership would have burned a £34.50 hole in my pocket.
Call me mad, but instead we decided to spend the cash on petrol. We went to Sainsbury’s in Wakefield, where we managed to get a gift, a card, two sandwiches and hot drinks for less than £15. I also got something back – a couple of points on my Nectar card. Not as cultural perhaps, but a darn sight cheaper.

Rebecca Whittington