The Police are not helpful

Improbably, the fair I did yesterday was not a disaster. I sold reasonably well, especially considering it was mostly vintage goods. I even sold a hoodie that I didn't have a chance to photograph, so it's like it never even existed. But trust me, it was awesome. 'Stop. Just wait one minute,' I hear you ask, 'You were doing a fair. Where's the drama? The apocalyptic weather? Where's the angst?' Here:


This is how I do not like my stand to look. That's me on the right, behind my rail, with a pygmy table at my knees. Why? Because when I arrived at the fair yesterday I was surprised to see that I had no space whatsoever. To my left, a wall. To my right, a woman with a behemoth of a display encompassing table, rails, bins, boxes and stand. With both of her parents in tow. I couldn't fit my rail and my table, so I had to choose just one. After much hand-wringing and teeth-gnashing I chose the rail, meaning all my t-shirts stayed in the suitcase. The lowly rail stood alone, and looked pathetic. I stood behind it, and also looked pathetic. 'What am I going to do?' I thought, 'This is wrong.' I contacted the police:


Well, technically I texted Friend Sarah, who happens to be a policewoman. But she wouldn't help me because it was her day off or there would have been too many forms to fill out or something. With Blue Suicide ruled out, I asked the organiser if they had any smaller tables and we found a toddler craft table no more than two feet off the floor. The only place to put it was inside and underneath my rail, which is just plain silly. Even sillier was that I had to stand behind my rail, and being short meant that no one could see me. And I had to rather dramatically pull the clothes aside and talk to people through the rail. I think it made me seem mysterious. Or perhaps just mental.