He introduced himself as Bob and urged me to buy cheap and sell cheap; to pass on with a small margin. He knew a barley twist from a pot of jam but was blind to faults and imperfections. He would regularly bring almost nice bits of furniture, but there was always something wrong. A replaced leg, a ruined top or it would have shrunk and split in an unrepairable way. The faults were always terminal. He passed over them because he paid way below the book value. Once he boasted to me of a coup with a partners desk and the next week turned up with a pile of wood for me to admire. I suspected that sometimes he bought the stuff sound and broke it up before he stalled for his stock did appeal to a certain kind of person, and he did sell it, as a rule. I wonder how many unfinished projects can be traced back to him to this day. After two weeks standing in the same hall I came to know him by his trade name, Broken Bob, and would often find myself humming "Light My Fire' under my breath.

Reg was another matter . His name was Alan but I always thought of him as Reg. If it wasn't the moustache it was the Shetland Isle pullover and the shiny arse trousers. Reg was a rotund Welshman who dealt in scientific instruments and early mechanical devices. He knew his stuff and often came back to his stall after a forage,chuckling, holding a chunky piece of brass ." Look at that" he'd say, eyes gleaming," the guy had no idea what it was. " Since I had no idea either I could only offer mute agreement and hope he wouldn't start on about the missing sprocket flanges.

The problem with Reg was that he pretended not to be greedy. His air of laid back bonhomie was a pleasure to be around until you realised that it was a facade underneath which was only pulsating desperation . Every time he sold something he would turn to his wife to confirm the price they had paid . He'd be pleased with himself for the two or three minutes it took for the doubt to set in, driving Reg to surreptitiously fish out the stock book to make sure he had not sold at a loss. He continually sought reassurance that he was making money, and preferably more money than the other stall holders. I don't think he wanted to see people do badly but it worried him that if they were doing better, but not necessarily well, he must be doing worse and possibly going broke. He was a desperate case given to totalling up the takings on an hourly basis.

Insecurity was never a problem with Arnold the ephemera dealer .I use the word ephemera in its broadest sense, paper based tat would describe it just as well, but the thing about Arnold was that he didn't expect too much. He was realistic rather than gloomy. He knew he wouldn't take his stall money but somehow never associated that fact with the dull, ordinary stock that he presented. I met Arnold regularly at the Leisure centre fairs in the eighties and if he was in profit to the tune of a tenner he would be offering to buy you a drink. Unfortunately his low expectation of profit was a cipher for his whole personality. He expected people to shun him, allowed dealers to cheat him and let organisers bully him. An ephemeral character,some might describe Arnold as the perfect stallholder but I could not possibly comment.

In general terms the ones I like being next to least are the ones who tell you immediately after saying hello that they always stall near the toilets. They usually reckon to be a friend of the organiser who they pin down at every opportunity to explain the gruesome symptoms of their recent illness or the details of a family bereavement. I had a go at organising once and if I say it myself I did quite a good job , but those sort of relationships deterred me in the end. It was never enough to just collect the rent .You had to be a willing and enthusiastic listener to recent, and sometimes far distant, life stories. It's an invisible payment that hands-on organisers have to make. On paper it appears a simple equation :you provide the stall, the hall, the punters and the catering, and take all the risks. They hand over the rent. But all too often they want a piece of you as well. Of course its never about filthy lucre with these characters, its about "loyalty" and "supporting you" which for my money blurs the edges between commerce and friendship a tad too far. I never stall at a fair because I'm loyal. I am not loyal. In fact I'm disloyal. If the organiser can't cut the mustard and get the punters through the portals then I'll sell elsewhere. He or she can be the nicest, sweetest, most hard working person on the planet but I would not insult them by stalling at a dead duck of a venue out of loyalty. Its patronising to the organiser and pointless for the seller.