I MIGHT have mentioned Daughter is going on a BIG school trip next year - a last, post-GCSE hurrah to Tanzania for a month of charity work (with a bit of scuba diving thrown in).

Things are starting to ramp up. The flights have been announced: in a neat bit of scheduling, they leave the day after Year 11 prom, and the day before her 16th birthday.

Then there are the vaccinations. When the teachers suggested getting these sorted 18 months ago, it seemed ridiculously early; now, as predicted, it’s getting alarmingly close.

But more to the point, there’s the eye-watering cost of the expedition. The kids are supposed to be raising cash towards this, and we have been struggling to a) find inventive ways of doing so, and b) actually put them into action.

Daughter raised a good amount of money doing a sponsored swim earlier this year; birthdays and Christmas, naturally, have seen a few donations.

Having helped my mum with a clear-out over the summer, I saved a few pieces from the charity shop to experiment with the kind of vintage sites that deprive good causes of cash by enabling people to flog their own stuff and keep the proceeds.

Some people get how it works, using it to their advantage. However, my own experience of uploading, pricing, packaging and sending an item via Evri ended in disappointment when it was returned, citing “damage” that certainly wasn’t there when I posted it. Verdict: life’s too short. The charity shop wins, hands down.

Next came the car boot sale. We discussed this many times over the summer, before finally attending our first event a couple of weekends ago. Yep, you read that right. Our wares were not displayed artistically on a lovely blanket in a warm, sunny field; instead, we unloaded into a pen at Truro Cattle Market in mid-November.

To be fair, Car Boots Cornwall (www.carbootscornwall.co.uk) has a number of sites, including Newquay, Mitchell and St Columb Major, which end their season in October. Truro carries on until Christmas, thanks to the undercover provision of stalls that would normally house prize bulls and ewes (indeed, the annual Primestock Show takes place on Wednesday, December 3). A stall costs £8 and allcomers are welcome.

Somehow, we never quite got our act together in July/August. There were many excuses: we were on holiday; it was beach weather; it was pouring with rain (all too frequent in August). If we didn’t fancy turning out, would others?

Then there’s the fact I’m pathologically averse to a sales environment. What if someone is offering me a silly (low) price for my goods? What if they are charging me a silly (high) price for what I want to buy? Are those bank notes even real?

This kind of anxiety led Daughter to ban me from the scene altogether. Granny stepped in to help; I figured an 85-year-old and a teen would at least get some sympathy votes. As the only one willing to drive them there and help unload all the cuddly toys, children’s books and sundry items we’d gathered and stickered, I was allowed back into the fold.

Setting up amid seasoned pros was by far the most stressful task. I had forgotten the bag with the groundsheet and bunting, and Daughter had high ideals. She was especially irked by a garden chair that had seen better days but was still capable of taking a seller’s bum. (Note: it’s £5 extra to set up early, and it was worth it).

I’d asked friends for advice. “Stick to your guns” was heard more than once, but the piece I took to heart on the day was, “Remember your aim is to get shot of stuff, so if someone offers you a price, consider it seriously.”

Would anyone venture out on a November Sunday, especially with the Christmas market freshly opened in the city centre? We need not have worried. When the siren sounded, the stampede was unleashed.

We attracted a certain demographic: think small children eyeing up teddies with undisguised affection. A bag of fruit and veg themed characters, acquired with supermarket stamps during lockdown, went to a loving home, while a grown man paid £2 each for four pristine Tintin volumes – bargain.

With a bag of wool going here and some unneeded hair accessories departing there, our junk was clearly someone else’s treasure. We were simultaneously earning money and decluttering, and I found myself thoroughly enjoying the social aspect of the day; even if browsers didn’t part with cash, it was nice to have a chat.

Some even gave donations without buying our tat after hearing Daughter’s Tanzania spiel. She made £50 in profit – not a king’s ransom, but not bad for an hour’s work.

Meanwhile, I’m hooked, a born market trader. See you in a field somewhere soon.