Everything Must Go! Selling your world to travel the world.

It was when I started blowing the ‘raving horn’ at a recent car boot sale and screaming: “Everything must go – 50p – everything must go,” that I realised I had reached a new level of desperation.


With just half an hour to go, I declared that everything could go for 50p – nothing was sacred.

My mother looked slightly incredulous. “Even these?” she asked, pointing at my collection of unopened Clinique miniatures – the last remaining evidence of all the ‘second skin care items’ I have purchased in a bid to get the all-so-necessary free gift.

“Especially those,” I glowered.

A lady came over (who had already bought one of Matt’s jackets for £2.50 after making me try it on to convince herself it was actually quite feminine) and picked up my bottle of fancy-pants tinted, shimmery SPF 15 sun cream.

“I’ll give you 30p for this,” she offered. I grabbed her pennies gladly. I’d loved that cream but alas, the lid had long since gone and it would be sure to turn everything in my rucksack into a brown, shimmery mess if it came with me. It had to go. Like all my other half used, much loved lotions and potions.


That’s me with my good friend Carly. She works in sales and was responsible for about 80% of our sales that day… Watching her sell Love Actually as a porn film to a middle aged man was a personal highlight.

As the morning drew to a close I ran off to collect more charity bags from the car boot organiser to avoid returning home with the loveless goods. We filled up about 6 bin liners with all my wise little purchases from years gone by, ignoring the slightly racist man opposite selling bird tables who was muttering something about Bob Geldof ripping off charities and how, if it wasn’t for immigrants, he wouldn’t be selling bird tables at a car boot sale.

Truth be told, I’d have given even more to charity if I’d been permitted but the charity shop at the end of the road sort of asked me to stay away earlier this week.

My recent giveaways on Facebook have been more successful – friends have gladly taken my old Tupperware, spices and condiments – although I’ve had less interest in an assortment of coat hangers I kindly advertised to my loved ones last night.

And perhaps slightly more worrying than that, is the lack of interest we’ve had in the house so far. Ah yes, that little thing. The small matter of covering the mortgage while we swan around deepest darkest centra Asia.

Almost three years ago exactly we bought our lovely little three-bed terraced house in Hyson Green, Nottingham… eating pizza with our hands and supping bubbles to celebrate picking up the keys. For three years we loved, cherished and thoroughly enjoyed our little home – but now it’s time for someone else to live on the door step of the best curries that Nottingham has to offer.

Yes, I have written this blog to try and convince you to rent our house. So without further ado (putting on my best Lloyd Grossman accent), ‘who lives in a house like this…?’

My, what a LOVELY door… And great bins.

And with a courtyard perfect for the looming summer’s evenings.

Through the keyhole and into the lounge… (The rug is still up for grabs for first available collector etc).

A nice, spacious kitchen/diner. Are you sold yet?

Crikey, look at the fitted wardrobe on that. Just like a scene out of Clueless. Quite.

“Darling, we simply must live here,” I hear you cry.

Top floor bedroom.

Best loo north of the River Trent. Fact.

And a room for little Joey.

By the time you’ve reached this point, I’m sure the agent’s line will already be busy – you should have called after reading the first line. Those of you that are now considering emigrating from Oz and elsewhere to Nottingham, I can assure you that you will not miss the beach life. The Old Market Square is transformed into a beach (fully equipped with deck chairs and a bar) every summer. You will be very happy here.

Meanwhile, we are now a mere six days from beginning our big journey from Nottingham to ‘nam across the Silk Road. We have spent weeks selling everything we own for just a few pennies, cleaning out a house that we love but has no tenants yet and wondering what to do with the Rover 25 that should never, ever be combined with a moustache in any circumstances.


Yes, you too could look this good. Just over 100,000 miles on the clock, 4 months MOT and guaranteed sex appeal. I’ll even throw in the car for free. All yours for just £400.

In sum, giving everything up to travel the world at an age when you own more than a few bags of clothes and a wok (circa 2006) is tricky… Truth be told my mother is having kittens. There are, of course, risks, worries and concerns but then again we wouldn’t be doing any of this if we wanted an easy life.

Instead we are choosing to travel a corner of the world where hotel televisions sometimes double up as CCTV cameras and visa rules are harder to follow than camel tracks in the scorching desert sand. It’s not meant to be an easy ride… But something tells me it will be a little bit more memorable than a bottle of fancy-pants, shimmery suntan cream.

Bring on the adventure x

Movember: When Matty met Barry

There seems to come a time in every man’s life when he must hold his head high, flex his Adam’s apple, beat his chest… and be safe in the knowledge that he can grow a big, bushy moustache. And unfortunately for me, Matty’s time came last month.

I went away for two days. That is all it took. Two days. And I came home to this….

And it is not the pose that I’m worried about. Just look at that hairy growth sitting oh, so happily on the top lip. It was Sunday, November 5th.

For any of you that managed to get through the last month without noticing an alarming rise in the number of furry lips among friends, family and colleagues, we have just come to the end of Movember. The month where men grow moustaches, the universal icon of raw and rugged manhood, and – just to silence disgusted girlfriends and wives across the globe – they do it for charity.

So for the last month we’ve had a third party in our relationship. I christened him Barry and with every passing day, as he marked his territory on Matty’s upper lip, he got a little bit stronger and more prickly. Barry didn’t take long to develop at all. I thought it was only right you all got to meet him.

Monday, November 12th. Barry and I weren’t getting on all that well.

By Day 14 Barry was ‘holding water’, Matty noted as he stepped out the shower. He could also ‘hold’ food and drink, which he would store between his bristles for later in the day.

Sunday, November 18th. Barry was changing Matty… This was the hobo stage.

But merely days later Barry had entered the ‘Old Man’ stage. By Day 22, Barry had Matty coming out with all sorts of ‘dad jokes’, which I’m not sure I can repeat on here, while he mused about pipes and cigars.

Saturday, November 24th. Matty Barry had never looked quite so at home in his Rover 25.

By that evening, Barry and Matty were one. I could no longer distinguish between them. It was just one messy three-way relationship.

To me, to you: Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Barry Chuckle.


By November 30th this was what I was contending with. I have never been so glad that November does not have 31 days. It was like Matty had grown a nest on his top lip. Things could have lived in it… Maybe they were.

While I was convinced that Matty had definitely morphed into Barry Chuckle, he was adamant he was more World War fighter pilot style, Biggles if you will. After all it is a hero’s tash…. Ahem.


So here we are on December 1st… 30 long days later. Now of course by this point you are no doubt all screaming: ‘Delia this is for charity – you are a terrible person, just ridiculing poor Matty on your blog.’

Now, I’ve never professed to be anything other than a terrible person, but today I did finally sponsor him… Withholding the cash until I saw him clean shaven was the only weapon left in my armoury you see. There were threats that Barry might stay for Christmas so I was forced to play the I’ll-sponsor-you-to-shave card.

But all jokes aside, Movember is a fab cause. Today 1,000 miles of tash was shaved off in the UK alone… just think of how many millions of pounds that translates into for men’s health programmes, namely prostate cancer charities. So if this post has amused you, or you’ve felt a pang of sympathy for me at all, take a look at Matty’s Movember site and sponsor him a few pennies.

This morning Barry died and I have Matty back. RIP Barry.


Disclaimer: The real Barry Chuckle lives on.