In the long course of lockdown I have developed an unhealthy obsession with antiques, salvage, recycling, re-purposing and restoration programmes.
I find myself compulsively scouring the television schedules daily, circling my ‘must sees’ with a black biro and organising my life around them. Since there are four or five scattered throughout the day, I don’t get much else done. This is neither healthy nor wise. Worse still, I have abandoned the intellectual high ground of ‘Only Connect’ and ‘University Challenge’ in favour of a small pugnacious Welsh antiques dealer and his lugubrious assistant, who trawl the country in a white van buying old stuff and broken things. I may well need addiction counselling.
By dint of being born last of the family, I accidentally fell heir to three generations of silver, glass and china, most of which had survived unscathed because it was considered too good to use - brought out only for wakes, weddings or an occasional wash or polish, then restored to the china cabinet, purely for show. None of it being dishwasher safe, it doesn’t get much of an outing under my guardianship either.
One generation’s gem is the next generation’s junk, as fashion fluctuates until it comes full circle, rediscovered by a new generation. You realise that you’re old when you see your grandchildren decorate their rooms in the style of wallpaper you may have had in your teenage bedroom. The 60s, 70s, even the 80s are all considered ‘retro’ now and my contemporaries are shouting at the television screen, “We had one of those!” But what use are napkin rings and linen tablecloths in a society that has abolished formal dining in favour of tucking a sheet of kitchen roll in at the neck to eat pizza or Kentucky Fried Chicken out of a box in front of the telly? Delicate bone china, brittle as biscuits, butter knives, pickle forks and grapefruit spoons - no occasion sufficiently grand to use.
I remember when ‘second hand’ furniture (unless inherited) was a term of disdain. Now, ‘vintage’ and ‘pre-loved’ are the whole go and dealers can barely cope with demand for it. There’s a fashion now in furniture for the ‘distressed’ look - irregularities in the finish, artificially aged or deliberately left imperfect, lest the patina of years be lost. With respect, the only thing I want battered is a piece of cod.
I’ve come to the conclusion that antiques dealers are all pessimists. “Brown furniture? Ye couldn’t shift it. No call for it these days,” delivered with a lugubrious air. Nothing pleases me more than a thorough hoke round among old stuff. I love the way the television antiques experts negotiate their way downwards with dealers until they get the item for half nothing. It has never worked for me. Due to being brought up too much of a ‘laydee’, I shrink from the art of bartering. Apparently, the technique for success for the ordinary punter is to look unenthusiastic about the item one’s interested in, implying you’d be doing the dealer a favour by taking it off his hands. The seasoned bargainer spotting a likely item, feigns indifference, walks all round it, cursorily registering its stability, condition, noting flaws and cracks; then frowns, sucks his teeth and says (in a tone that implies the dealer should be grateful to get rid of it) “What’re ye lookin’ fer fur that thing?” The dealer quotes a figure. It is received with a sharp intake of breath, a shake of the head. The bargainer shrugs and wanders away to examine other stock. End of Act One. Both know he’ll be back. A deal will be struck to their mutual satisfaction.
I, on the other hand, spot something I love, go into noisy raptures and am charged full price. My sole foray into negotiation was an ignominious one. “How much?” I ask. He names a price. “You’re not going to charge me that are you?” I coax with a smile. He remains impassively silent. My cue to suggest a modest reduction. “No,” he says. Instant mortified collapse of stout party. I cough up full whack and leave. It’s never like this on the Antiques Road Trip…..
