We arrive at the hall where the fair is taking place.

The taxi driver grumbles in my vague direction. ‘Where should I pull in?’

I have no idea. I look out of the window, hoping for inspiration.

‘It looks like there’s a pull-in right up there?’ I try to motion with my hand, but the box on my lap is quite precariously balanced.

He pulls in, hitting the kerb.

‘Here you go.’

‘Thank you so much.’ I try to manoeuvre myself into a better position to be able to reach the door handle. I’m an independent woman, but I feel that it’s in both our interests for him to help me.

He doesn’t.

Finally I manage to open the door. ‘Is it OK if I pop in with this one box to find where my table is and then unload?’

Again, he makes no noise, but I take it as a yes and head inside.

‘That little shit.’

Having found my space, I’m back outside to unload. I’ve been three minutes, max, and yet all of my boxes are piled, abandoned, on the side of the road. Apparently he can help when it suits him. It has also started to rain.

Someone with frizzy hair half smiles at me. ‘You were in the taxi?’

‘Yes.’

She nods knowingly. ‘They really don’t like waiting. Next time think about using a courier. It’s a tad more expensive, but they also have to help take the stuff in.’

‘Thank you.’ At least I know for next time. Hoping that there is a next time.

One good thing about the massive rush I put myself in was that I was too stressed to look around during set-up, because if I had, I probably would have packed straight back up and gone home.

Everyone else’s stands were amazing, whilst mine looked like something you would see at a sad school holiday fair.

There were sparkle stations and nail art salons, jewellers selling beautiful stacked rings, temporary tattoo parlours, and even a cookie art stall.

The only stall that I thought was worse than mine was one that sold teeny tiny boats, like the ones in Pocahontas, for £15 a pop. He must be having a laugh. Who would buy those? For £15? They’re half the size of my little finger.

The fair opened an hour and a half ago, and I am yet to make a sale.

As I pace slowly in front of my table, I wish I hadn’t asked Peter to come. I feel akin to how I did at speed dating: mortified that Peter is here to witness my downfall but glad to have him here for moral support.

I still have an hour before he’s due to arrive, and so in that time I set myself a challenge. I will talk to at least five other exhibitors. I can make cards, this I know, but that isn’t enough. What I really need is to get the inside scoop. These people have been selling their crafts for years. How do they do it? How can I do it?