Open Writing

We have been together now for over twenty years. In spite of the dark rings, the gammy leg and the indelible stains and wrinkles left by a lifetime of close proximity with intemperates, I could never bear to part with this dear companion.

I am of course referring to our oak dining table, not my other old dear, whose legs are as good as ever, anyway. We paid £10 for this oval gate-legged bargain at a local antique shop, which was closing down, the year before we married. It’s still in better shape than us and looks even more attractive with a little polish and without the dead roses. More waxing and less waning would be a distinct improvement.

As I follow one of my favourite occupations, browsing through antiquities, I often see similar tables offered at more than three times the price we gave. It is that rare a commodity, one indulgence I have never regretted.

I love junk shops, the sort you can wander through at leisure, opening drawers, examining china, not the ones that forbid you to step over the threshold. I suppose it is the jumble sale atmosphere that draws me to the Oxfam Wastesaver Centre most weeks. If you have the strength to climb the mountainous stone steps, you can enjoy an exhilarating rummage without the suffocating assistance of the ‘committee ladies’ who usually patrol ‘jumbles’ in their favourite supervisory capacity, and best of all everything is VAT free. There is a promising evening dress section. But I wish buyers did not feel the need to apologise when they succumb. Most look as if they have committed something improper and feel they have to read a boring soliloquy to anyone who witnessed their ‘crime.’

Actually I never feel comfortable in new outfits until they have been shocked into shape. Like Oliver Goldsmith I love everything old. Books, wine, friends, and only ask one thing, that I may be allowed to choose them.

One of the occupational hazards of owning large families are the ‘relief’ parcels. Old ‘cast-offs’ which owners are relieved to part with and for which recipients have to look suitably grateful. Spring and Christmas are the most ‘relieving’ seasons. But there is undeniable pleasure in choosing your own rubbish.

Up another flight of leg breakers is my favourite section, a lovely musty collection of books, furniture and other bric-a-brac.

In and among are some valuable antiques. I picked up a pretty smoked glass dish for only 20p the other day.

Another good browse for the addicted is the house clearance auctions. Everything is on view the day before and you are allowed to scrutinise to your wallet’s content. The following day the lots are auctioned off. Bidding can be a little embarrassing at first. Everyone has their own eye-catching gimmick. The crowd look a twitchy, scratchy bunch, but you soon become accustomed to their craze.

The first time I dared to bid for a chair I was disgustingly eager. I raised my arm ostentatiously at the pound mark. As the price rose higher my arm dropped lower and I wished I was nearer the exit. I was just beginning to attain the uninterested look which is the hallmark of most dealers, when the auctioneer raised his gavel menacingly and demanded in his echoing Oxford accent with Holmfirth connotations, ‘Madam in the blue raincoat, is your arm up or down?’

Over the years my purchases have been a perpetual surprise to my beloved, but I think it fair to admit, when the chair finally arrived, accompanied by another, their stunted legs were a puzzle to both of us. Now I confess I have suffered the ‘short leg syndrome’ for years, one reason I avoid bus side seats, because of the leg-swinging agony, perhaps I could use this argument in defence of my ‘bargain.’ But it is extremely difficult trying to sing praises to a chair which was ‘made for you’ with your Adam’s apple trapped between your kneecaps.

Yes there are bargains for all – a three-piece suite for £5, and Victorian lustres held back because the bidding stopped at £90!

Another family favourite is the annual transport lost property sale, when all the articles left behind on the buses are sold. What a collection! Underwear, jewellery, ties, books and of course the ubiquitous umbrella. All the best sales are inhabited by the tall, so most of the objects are invisible to me. Naturally this does not deter me. I considered it safe to buy a bundle of something offered for 10p. It turned out to be umbrellas. As we continued our shopping, yes in the rain, they were duly shared out. With a brolly held overhead and a spare tucked under our arms, the five of us caused quite a stir as we paraded the Piazza. A pity we had not taken the dog. I could have strapped the remaining two to his back! It’s a strange feeling really, any minute you expect a hand on your shoulder and an irate voice demanding ‘Hey, that’s mine!’ But it wears off, especially when you have a dozen umbrellas, a bit faded and mis-shapen perhaps for 10p.

‘Jungle’ sales, as one daughter used to call them, often harbour hidden treasures. My mother once bought a pretty pink glass dish for sixpence, which proved to be Victorian cranberry jar valued years ago at £6. Old painting are a good buy, if you are not over-fond of sheep on a hillside, or pale females in the last stages of galloping anaemia, they are worth buying just for the frames. We have favourite family portraits in one that hangs above the dining table. Our son still finds his photograph so fascinating he often forgets to complain about the food. The morning after a jumble sale all our girls carry a handbag and all their dolls wear knickers. At our last school rummage sell out I was a voluntary patient, helping to fill up the tables. I left my old new shoes and went home in a pair which fitted me perfectly and which I still wear, unless my husband accompanies me!

There is an art in junk buying, but even if you make mistakes, it’s fun and we all learn to distinguish true values in the end – don’t we?