Vide Grenier (Empty your Attic)

I discovered the joys of the Vide Grenier on a French holiday some years ago, marvelling at the boxes of rusty keys, broken dolls, stuffed animals and wheel-less pushchairs arrayed at the kerbside of the small towns of the South West on summer Sundays. This year, we came home to begin work on turning a boxroom on our top floor into a shower room for visitors. Not only did the boxroom have to be emptied, but the floor of the attic above had to cleared to provide access to pipes and wiring.

My first thought was to have our own Vide Grenier in our small front garden, but it seemed a little presumptuous to display our junk to our neighbours' eyes and expect them to pay us money for it. As we assembled a motley collection of bedspreads, plastic flowers, seventies clothes and mirrors (I used to collect them, but have run out of wall space), each item seemed to stir up memories and associations. My partner decided it was time to part with his dog bed, bowls and leads. I let the cat loo go (enclosed, hygenic, with free unopened bag of cat litter), along with my studded leather coat from 1968 and the blue bead curtains dating from my somewhat OTT post-divorce home decorating phase. Inspiration struck, and I Googled 'car boot sales'. I found there was to be one the following Sunday about 3 miles from us. Fired with enthusiasm, I printed out pages of hints and tips from the internet.

Don't put on price stickers, State your price with conviction, Take a picnic, wipes and plastic bags. Don't expect to sell exercise equipment or wigs.

Preparing for the boot sale became my main preoccupation. Yes, I was returning to work the following week, and should perhaps have been looking out materials and planning ahead, but somehow the need to shift the emotionally laden pile of formerly significant things was more pressing. Sometimes letting something go is an acknowledgement that never again will one

go ski-ing, do karate, own a dog or a horse ( yes, the tack box was going too), wear a wine suede mini-skirt...........

I lay awake at night, mentally arranging and re-arranging our stall. I took things out of the pile, looked at them for a while with a lump in my throat, then put them back.

The day dawned. I leapt out of bed and pulled open the curtains - it was raining hard, as forecasted. However, nothing daunted, I managed to repark the car close to the house and began loading up. My other half was struggling to wake up - he'd driven to Glasgow and back the day before and we'd got home late - but he did get involved with the packing and sandwich- making.

We arrived to find the site unusually quiet. Not many cars at all. We got a good pitch and began to set up our table and clothes rail. People descended on us, picking things up as we set them out, making it difficult to set out our wares. The wind had got up, and snatched scarves, bags and dresses from our hands. We took it in turns to pursue our escaped goods and bring them back. Next time, I said, we bring clothes pegs. A pottery lamp fell off the table the table and smashed on the ground. Meantime, my partner's mood lifted - he'd made his first sale!

The rain came and went. We huddled against the car, hoods up, eating our bacon rolls and drinking lukewarm coffee. Amazingly, people continued to buy things - the bead curtains, the dog bed, cat loo and the Sega Megadrive (collector's item?). After two hours, people were packing up, but still the potential buyers came - my daughter's size 7 boots went to the woman at the next car as we were putting our stuff away. Once we were home and had decanted our remaining 'stock' to the shed to be handy for next time (yes, we were hooked!), we counted our takings - a profit of over £20 - not bad for a couple of hours on the wettest, windiest Sunday of the summer.

Reflecting on the meaning of this experience, it feels not unlike therapy. You go into some obscure places, discover things which were important and meaningful. Dragged out into the light, they are examined for what they are, often appearing less significant than our memories had suggested. Some can be discarded, not worth keeping or passing on to others. Some are still precious, irrelevant to our life as it is now, but of value to others. Like the dog bed, with its newly laundered padded lining and cushion, which went to a lady who was taking it home for a rescued pet in need of comfort and care. Or the curtains of blue moons and stars, seized with great enthusiasm by two young men with limited English - I'd love to see what they did with them. We let go of stuff from the past, having processed it in some way, laying it out and offering it up to the world.

I've started work again with a kind of lightness, a sense of having dealt with some of my own baggage from the past and the weighty problems of the past six months. The empty attic is a metaphor for the bit of me that is ready to be receptive to others, a potential space to which they can bring their concerns.