My father always used to claim that one of the biggest effects Margaret Thatcher had had on his life was the car boot sale.

“Under a SOCIALIST government, people’s old, unwanted possessions were donated to the jumble sale,” he would rage, after three Guinnesses. “The goods were given without payment. The funds raised would benefit the local community, or the church, or the Scouts; or some group of bastards like that. Under Thatcher, what happened? The jumble sale disappeared. The car boot sale took over. Everyone turned into little tinpot microcapitalists – flogging their unwanted goods off for profit, out the back of their tossy Nissan Micras. Thatcher,” he would say, stubbing out his fag, and lighting another, “killed the miners, the dockers and the jumble sale. I wouldn’t even spit on her grave for a quid.”

Alas for his convictions, however, there was no other local source of carrier bags full of spoons for a pound, and so we spent every weekend at car boot sales.

Personally my heart still surges when I pass one. The combination of a damp field, a burger van and the contents of 500 people’s attics is potent. Money takes on an almost surreal worth – people will become genuinely furious at the idea of paying more than £5 for a fully working colour television. A whole house could be kitted out for £72.

At these prices, it is initially baffling that people are aiming to counteract the recession by selling their possessions at car boot sales. After all, if you charged more than £3 for a functioning kidney, someone would protest. But then you remember – they’ll be spending all their profits at the car boot too. It all works out so well.

Times Recommends

• Police beg us for food. What hope is there?
• Moral darkness that engulfed Baby P
• More to Advent than cheap chocolate