I can’t ride my bike any more, as I have injured my shoulder. So now there is an unwanted bicycle taking up precious space in our kitchen. The sensible thing would be to sell it, but I am a novice at selling online. Luckily, I know who to ask for advice: my live-at-home, 26-year-old daughter, Lily, queen of Gumtree, eBay, and Etsy.
Under her guidance, I trawl Gumtree for similar bikes to find the lowest price. “Undercut that by £5,” Lily says with authority. She takes charge of the bike photo shoot. “Stick as many pictures on as you can,” she tells me. “And make the advert personal, as if you’re talking about your best friend.”
“It’s a bike.”
She sighs. “Trust me. I know this stuff.”
After I have crafted the advert to her approval, I post it with nine pictures.
“Do you remember the first thing you sold online?” I ask her.
“A pair of vintage silk camiknickers,” she says. “A man rang up and asked me if they’d been worn. I said they were 1930s, so, yes, probably quite a few times. And then,” she rolls her eyes. “I realised what he meant.” She makes a gagging sound. “So disgusting.”
‘What!” I can’t believe she didn’t even tell me this at the time. I want to find the man in question and tell him exactly what I think of him. But Lily folds her arms. “Don’t worry. It taught me to be wiser next time. In the end, I sold the knickers to a lovely girl who collects vintage clothes.”
Ten minutes after posting the ad, I have had two messages from people inquiring about the bike. The first woman comes along that afternoon. I wheel the bike out and adjust the seat for her. She takes it for a trial spin around the area and I wonder if I will ever see it, or her, again. But she returns, looking thoughtful.
“It rides well,” she says cautiously. She tips her head to one side. “How much did you say you were selling it for?”
I repeat the price. She frowns slightly and purses her lips. “Would you accept a lower sum?” She suggests a figure quite substantially lower. Panic bubbles in my chest.
“Well …”
Lily appears at my side. “We’re not open to offers. Sorry.” She smiles at the woman. “If you’re not interested, that’s fine. We have someone else lined up to see it.” The woman tightens her grip on the handlebars. She offers a slighter higher sum. Lily makes a noise in the back of her throat, a little like the gagging sound she made earlier. “No offers,” she repeats. There is something steely in her tone. I glance at her. She is making me nervous.
There is a long pause. The woman grimaces. “All right,” she says.
I am feeling slightly sick with anxiety. My heart is definitely beating faster. “What about the lock?” the woman says. “Are you including the lock?” It’s an expensive, but old and battered, Kryptonite, and I realise that I have forgotten to take its bracket off the bike. Confusion kicks in. I want to wrap this up. I open my mouth to agree that she can have it.
“Was it included in the advert?” Lily asks me sharply. I shake my head.
“Then, no. We can’t give it away. You do understand?” Lily smiles sweetly. “The bike’s already a bargain.”
I am handed a roll of £20 notes and the woman leaves with my bicycle. My knees feel weak. We have sold it within three hours of posting the advertisement. Then a rush of euphoria hits. “Wow,” I say.
Lily looks at me and grins. “Feels good, right?”
“It feels great.” I look around our cluttered kitchen. “How much do you think this would go for?” I say, eyeing up the electronic piano.
“Look out,” Lily tells her siblings. “Mum’s on a selling high. Lock away your stuff.” The word lock gives me a stab of guilt. “Maybe I should have thrown it in for free …”
Lily gives me a sad look. “You still have so much to learn,” she says.
I wake in the middle of the night, staring into the darkness. Lily was right, the woman did get a bargain. But I kind of wish I had given her the lock, anyway. Then I wonder why Lily is still living at home with me when she should clearly be MD of a multimillion-pound business, or negotiating Brexit.
Some names have been changed
