Why, why? Says the junk in the yard

Flea market. Flea market. It’s a phrase that, while composed of two undeniably inauspicious individual words, never fails to exhilarate me. My mind is overrun with wondrous images of rows and rows of delightful and unique stalls, housed in striped canvas tents, displaying their wares on trestle tables remnant from 1940s churchyard sales, and manned by collectors and brokers as varied and interesting as their merchandise.