Open Writing

One of the advantages of having children is the relief you enjoy when they are temporarily not there. A whole day uncontaminated by one’s offspring can seem truly delightful.

In order to gain full benefit you need to be pretty well bogged down by these dominating little darlings first, of course. Like banging your head continuously on that open cupboard door, it’s lovely when you shut it.

This is why I look upon my husband’s periodic days off – when we plan all manner of childless pursuits together – as brief lifesavers.

On one of his mystery tours we finished up eating chicken from a basket in an ancient country pub somewhere near Halifax. If I wondered about my husband and publican being on first name terms, I kept my mouth shut. Later I learned it was a watering hole for his bowling team when in the vicinity.

This week we took our picnic to an auction. An esoteric sale of pottery, porcelain, silver, jewellery and old furniture. Naturally I completed the necessary first, I popped a casserole in the oven, only the chips to fry when we returned. This is the next best thing to having tea made for you, a fall-out from baby days. On our busy shopping days I used to leave jacket potatoes baking on the top shelf, sausages sizzling underneath and a rice pudding simmering in the oven bottom. When you stagger back home the welcoming smell which rushes to greet you is worth the few minutes’ preparation.

We arrived at the draughty saleroom ten minutes before eyes down, to find most of the furniture occupied. Under clouds of pipe smoke and pork-pie hats, stern faced dealers sat a-brooding. I managed to find myself a chair about two inches from the floor that no one else had managed to fold their frame into. With my knees so near my nostrils, I felt a bit like a grasshopper.

This was a sale with a difference for us, because we had someone else’s money to play with. Our son-in-law had given us permission to bid up to £100 for a piece of Japanese bric-a-brac he fancied. Just in front of my eyeballs the glass and silver sparkled expensively, but if my bank balance looked healthier the dignified old furniture, which looked as if it had been polished lovingly for decades, would have my vote.

A damsel nearby was soon buying silver as if it was gold. Her fingers were all bound to the tip in huge Victorian rings, a handicap at coffee times I noted, but she never imbibed.

It’s easy to feel one ‘knows nowt about owt’ with all the nodding and winking that goes on for items you wouldn’t give house room. Two pewter plates, looking like the old junk our children made their mud pies on, fetched £50. Just as surprising, a beautiful mahogany sideboard sold for only a fiver.

Selling the 330 lots was serious business; I was bound to giggle at the auctioneer and his clerk turning their heads from left to right in complete harmony, rather like a vaudeville duo, as they followed the bids. He didn’t waste time, his advances leapt upwards in tens, four nods and you were often into a hundred. ‘This is very trying, sir,’ a chap was admonished when he kept offering bids only £1 higher.

One item was described in the catalogue as ‘important pair of Worcester vases.’ We discovered why when they were sold for £1,300.

At this climax in the proceedings, I also discovered my chair had wheels. As I bent forward to oggle, it ran out of control. I shot forth at high speed knocking a table over, shocking two old gents, nearly chopping a woman’s finger off and raising the auctioneer’s left eyebrow.

Ah, but what an honour it must be when his highness the auctioneer knows one’s name without having to ask first. It makes one feel so humble to note the recognition, as he scribbles down a dealer’s name automatically following a sale. None of the ‘What name did you say?’ and ‘Spell it, please,’ we ordinary mortals have to suffer, which makes you feel as if you stepped off another planet.

Eventually ‘our’ objet d’art was held up for all to view. ‘Right,’ smiled the auctioneer, ‘Shall we start the bidding at – say £100 for this item?’ He didn’t stop until he reached £310, leaving us speechless – and art-less!