Azbo Aaron... Judging a cover by the book

Clearing out the spare bedroom of the hoards of clothes and toys that Grace has outgrown is a mammoth task reserved for days when I've ticked off everything else on the to-do list and it's the last thing standing. I hate it, with a passion but needs must and seeing as I've not been able to open the door fully for at least a month, the deed needed to be done. Armed with laptop, camera, caffeine and the promise of a stiff drink on completion, I dug myself in an evening of dire eBay listings.

Zoom forward a week, things have sold, the room is clearer. I have some money in my pocket and said stiff drink has long since been necked (thank you Uncle Frank for the Glayva you bought us!)

Do you ever wonder what your buyers are like? Who is taking on your clutter, to them a little gem? I regularly bid on eBay for hidden gems that I refuse to pay full price for, like Converse high tops for a toddler who'll probably only be in them two months at most. So I often wonder if the person selling wonders who is buying their junk, my little gem of a find?

Assume my interest then, when a bundle of Grace's toys sold for a tenner to someone going by the screen name of Azbo Aaron. Not ASBO, but cooler, more hip. Azbo.

Now I'm not one to judge on first impressions, sometimes not even second. That said I did rather feel I ought to batten down the hatches and warn the neighbours there might be a wrong'un effing and jeffing up the street with a can of White Lightening hanging off his arm. Then I told myself not to be such a bloody snob and that regardless of his ASBO, Aaron was someones son who at some time in his life got a rap on the wrist for pissing on the bus stop and swearing at the vicar.

I reminded myself I've known highly educated professionals, Old Etonians even, who've pissed behind the curtain at a rugby club reunion, who've run naked across the beach when someones pinched their underwear while they were swimming and whom probably had more colourful language than me and my cousin Christina on an Essex night out. None of which is particularly social to the average Joe.

So I park my assumptions and ride it out. As it turns out, Azbo Aaron sent his Mrs to pick up the haul so I'll never get to put my wonderings to bed. Probably just as well, I've had enough of pot kettle black for one day.