It was an unwritten rule that at any vintage fair or decorative interiors event, the number of cushions should at least be equal to the number of visitors in attendance. In fact, so consistent was the anecdotal evidence on this matter, that a team of crack mathematicians at the University of East Russetshire were researching the phenomena with a view to publishing a learned paper with full stastical proof. Visitors to any fair in Southern England pooh-poohed the need for such laborious investigation - they knew that cushion overload was a very real problem and that the evidence was clear to see to anyone with eyes.
Many stallholders saw running-up a few cushions as an easy way to utilise their limited sewing skills and to enjoy the creative process involved in machine sewing up four seams and inserting a zip, buttons or other more elaborate fastenings. And cushions filled up stall space, were nice and easy to pack and transported squashed around less yielding goods such as rusted garden furniture or large woodwormholed cupboards. Cushions could also be crafted from a limitless selection of otherwise unselleable textiles including old grain sacks; linen sheets too far gone to be repaired; distressed and fraying kelims and rugs; scrappy patchwork quilts; old woollen blankets made obsolescent by duvets and other sundry offerings. In fact all manner of textiles, old and new, were being re-purposed into cushions to suit every taste and pocket.
The cushion genus took many forms. In its lowest manifestation, the product would be fashioned from some rather poorly designed, garish and inevitably synthetic "vintage" print. The envelope fastening indicated the lack of sewing skills of the novice maker - zips and buttonholes were simply a step too far. Remnants of said fabric would then be turned into bunting - the edges pinked to save sewing and the flags tacked to bias binding. The cushion pad would be polyester, with not a feather in sight. However, the lure of the gaudy colours and bargain prices would be irresistible to cushion-hunting virgins, as yet unschooled in the whys and wherefores of prestige cushionery. And how lovely to be able to buy matching bunting, too!
Further up the ladder of cushion acquisitions, the more savvy buyer would seek out classy numbers featuring a combination of aged linen, patched with a favoured designer fabric. The mid-range status cushion would be one that boasted old soft linen, adorned with a scrap of Cauliflowers & Posies "Faded Floribunda" range. The canny cushion crafter would ensure that every leftover scrap of this "Faded Florrie" would be utilised for heart-shaped lavender bags; tiny, unusable pencil cases and miniscule make up bags. The correct response of the afficianado, on seeing such a cushion, would be a series of small shrieks and moans, "Oh, oh, oh....look at that darling cushion - that gorgeous material....it's sooooo pretty!". And as the process of making a cushion was not dissimilar to making a shoulder bag, the stall would also proffer a range of bags, similarly decorated with scraps of the desired fabric. No cushion on this stall would be supplied with anything less than a feather pad. The cost of such padded perfection was eye-wateringly high, but each buyer would be convinced of its uniqueness and beauty. Quibbling husbands who were suffering from cushionitis would oft be heard objecting - "Not Another Cushion". Naturally, their wives would ignore such petulant grumbles.
The pinnacle of cushion excellence was rarely to be found amongst the sea of cushion mediocrity or downright ugliness. However, the hawk-eyed cushion doyenne would be able to spot a glimpse of vintage Sanderson or finest crewel work at a thousand paces. Like a bloodhound on a human trail, said doyenne would hone in on the stall where such precious bounty was to be found. Cushions of this calibre involved a series of challenges that would put the labours of Hercules in the shade. Firstly, the vintage Sanderson, faded Victorian patchwork and ragged samplers would be tracked down at obscure country auctions or specialist and inaccessible textile fairs. The exquisite antique linen backing material would be sourced from France, via a specialist dealer who was a "dear, dear friend" of the cushion artiste; maker would be too lowly a title for such dedication and creativity.
Each cushion was a work of art, repurposing the fragile and the frayed into an object of loveliness. As the artiste's skill level was on a different plain to the average cushion crafter, further customisation ensued involving monogrammed initials cut from old French smocks and chemises, tiny mother of pearl buttons, hand sewn ruffles and frills and exquisitely embroidered flourishes. The completed artefact would be worthy of a showcase at the World Heritage Cushion Museum, if such a place existed. This cushion was the creme de la creme, the piece de resistance, the Cushion Olympics Gold Medallist.
Such loveliness would come at a massive price - but the salivating cushion addict would loudly justify her purchase to anyone within earshot. ""Well, it is my birthday in four months' time and Jasper can give it to me for my house present". Reverently, the artiste would place her masterwork, enveloped in acid-free tisssue paper, into a large white carrier bag, rope-handled, of course. With equal reverence, the cushion was borne away by its disciple and driven with great care to its final resting-place. Once there, the cushion was unveiled and threats issued to anyone who sat, leant, slept or ate anywhere in its vicinity. After all, you would not go to sleep or eat your supper by the Mona Lisa. Jasper was none too pleased about the Queen's Ransom that he was expected to stump up for this early birthday present - he knew that this would soon be forgotten and that further gifts would be required for the Big Day.
Showing posts with label antiques. Show all posts
Showing posts with label antiques. Show all posts
Thursday, 28 August 2014
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
The painted lady
Annabel was the proud purveyor of painted furniture - Painted Lady was her new enterprise and she had visions of becoming the next Rachel Ashwell. Her addiction to the painted and distressed was triggered by an overdose of homes and interiors magazines depicting endless rustic boltholes, Georgian rectories and restored chapels. Not a natural piece of wood or unadorned furniture were to be found in the pages of La Maison Francaise or Vintage Home Interior magazines. Giles, Annabel's husband, sensing that she could be directed away from her previous interest of breeding Labradors, stumped up for a painted furniture course for her birthday. Giles figured it would be cheaper in the long run to invest in painted furniture, rather than in futures of Labrador puppies (go long on Labradors!) and the inevitable destruction that followed in their wake.
The Painted Furniture course was organised by an ardent disciple of the cult of the Lazy Artisan chalky paint range - affectionately known as Lazy A to those in the know. Annabel was thrilled to learn that rubbing down, sanding and prepping were things of the past. Lazy A paint would cover a multitude of sins with minimal effort - perfect! Jilly, the efficient, no-nonsense tutor on the course, took the ladies through a multitude of paint finishes and techniques, with each daubing and dabbing at their boards to get the desired effects. At the end of the course, all were released back into the wild, having mastered stippling, stencilling, rag rolling, distressing and crackling. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing and Annabel could hardly wait to experiment at home. No piece of furniture was safe from her ministrations. All went well until a very lovely Georgian mahogany tallboy, inherited from Giles' grand-parents, fell victim to the curse of the paint effect. Annabel gave it the full treatment with a Boulevard Grey base coat, topped with Madame Pompadour Lilac. Artful rubbing down and distressing lent the piece a suitably shabby demeanour, sealed by a thick coat of clear wax. On discovering his heirloom's fate, Giles retreated to the 19th hole at his golf club for some gin and sympathy.
Having exhausted her home supply of items to decorate, Annabel became a regular visitor at her local car boot sales - a new and alien experience. Dealers were delighted to offload their lumpen 1930s brown furniture, third-hand flatpack coffee tables and tannic orange Mexican pine blanket boxes. No piece of furniture was too ugly for Annabel to makeover - upcycling had became her watchword. The latest batch of Cinderella tables, chairs, bedside cupboards and the odd wardrobe would be squeezed into an already over-full garage awaiting their magical transformation. Giles' Lexus was permanently excluded from its quarters and had to live on the drive. Annabel would set to work excitedly running through the paint chart to choose the best colours. Her taste tended to direct her to soft greys and whites, but occasionally she would branch out and experiment with the Lazy A's latest paint colours - Jaundice Yellow, Poison Bottle Blue and Nuclear Orange.
Taking a stand at the Country Vintage Fair was Annabel's first foray into the world of fairs and markets. Her expectations were high as she unloaded her hired van packed to the gunnels. As she was the new girl on the block, Annabel was allocated a tucked away spot reached via stairs and heavy self-closing fire doors. Her nerves were in shreds by the time she had unloaded all her stock and pulled it into some kind of display. The public proved to be less enthralled by her offerings than she had hoped. Most rushed past her stand on their way to buy coffee and cake or to the disabled WC; those who lingered opened and closed every door and drawer, perhaps with a friendly comment but no sale. By the end of the day, her sales amounted to one folding chair and a small coffee table. Some fairgoers had taken her card, promising to speak to their husbands about specific items - she was pinning her hopes on a rush of sales after the fair.
Back home, Giles' enquiries about sales and the possibility of getting his car back into the garage were met with somewhat sulky responses from Annabel. And her froideur was further increased when Giles chortled about her paint-splashed arms and called her his very own Painted Lady. Perhaps Labrador puppies were the easier option after all.
The Painted Furniture course was organised by an ardent disciple of the cult of the Lazy Artisan chalky paint range - affectionately known as Lazy A to those in the know. Annabel was thrilled to learn that rubbing down, sanding and prepping were things of the past. Lazy A paint would cover a multitude of sins with minimal effort - perfect! Jilly, the efficient, no-nonsense tutor on the course, took the ladies through a multitude of paint finishes and techniques, with each daubing and dabbing at their boards to get the desired effects. At the end of the course, all were released back into the wild, having mastered stippling, stencilling, rag rolling, distressing and crackling. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing and Annabel could hardly wait to experiment at home. No piece of furniture was safe from her ministrations. All went well until a very lovely Georgian mahogany tallboy, inherited from Giles' grand-parents, fell victim to the curse of the paint effect. Annabel gave it the full treatment with a Boulevard Grey base coat, topped with Madame Pompadour Lilac. Artful rubbing down and distressing lent the piece a suitably shabby demeanour, sealed by a thick coat of clear wax. On discovering his heirloom's fate, Giles retreated to the 19th hole at his golf club for some gin and sympathy.
Having exhausted her home supply of items to decorate, Annabel became a regular visitor at her local car boot sales - a new and alien experience. Dealers were delighted to offload their lumpen 1930s brown furniture, third-hand flatpack coffee tables and tannic orange Mexican pine blanket boxes. No piece of furniture was too ugly for Annabel to makeover - upcycling had became her watchword. The latest batch of Cinderella tables, chairs, bedside cupboards and the odd wardrobe would be squeezed into an already over-full garage awaiting their magical transformation. Giles' Lexus was permanently excluded from its quarters and had to live on the drive. Annabel would set to work excitedly running through the paint chart to choose the best colours. Her taste tended to direct her to soft greys and whites, but occasionally she would branch out and experiment with the Lazy A's latest paint colours - Jaundice Yellow, Poison Bottle Blue and Nuclear Orange.
Taking a stand at the Country Vintage Fair was Annabel's first foray into the world of fairs and markets. Her expectations were high as she unloaded her hired van packed to the gunnels. As she was the new girl on the block, Annabel was allocated a tucked away spot reached via stairs and heavy self-closing fire doors. Her nerves were in shreds by the time she had unloaded all her stock and pulled it into some kind of display. The public proved to be less enthralled by her offerings than she had hoped. Most rushed past her stand on their way to buy coffee and cake or to the disabled WC; those who lingered opened and closed every door and drawer, perhaps with a friendly comment but no sale. By the end of the day, her sales amounted to one folding chair and a small coffee table. Some fairgoers had taken her card, promising to speak to their husbands about specific items - she was pinning her hopes on a rush of sales after the fair.
Back home, Giles' enquiries about sales and the possibility of getting his car back into the garage were met with somewhat sulky responses from Annabel. And her froideur was further increased when Giles chortled about her paint-splashed arms and called her his very own Painted Lady. Perhaps Labrador puppies were the easier option after all.
Saturday, 26 July 2014
The pop-up tea shoppe
Visitors to the monthly DecorativeVintage Fair came in two categories. Firstly, there were the avid vintage-hunters firmly focussed on tracking down the most beautiful and useless of vintage knick-knacks available. For them, food was but a distraction from their noble cause. The second and larger group, were those that regarded a trip to the fair as a chance to indulge in some highly calorific, sugar-saturated and unhealthy treats. The lure of the pop-up tea shoppe was like that of a rancid, water-logged tennis ball to a Labrador, totally irresistible. The organisers of DecorativeVintage knew that if the cake ran out there would be revolution in the ranks of Middle Englanders but finding reliable and professional caterers was a challenge only slightly less difficult than balancing the National Debt.
In the early days of the fair, the local WI ladies had been persuaded to come and run the catering operation. Their cakes enjoyed legendary status in the village. The gremlins in the tea urn were too much in awe of the WI Dragons to play their usual tricks and jinxes. All had run smoothly, with slick sandwich preparation, fabulously flaky pastry for the sausage rolls, and sumptuously iced sponge cakes on display. That is until the issue of crockery had arisen. The WI insisted on using the crested china supplied by the village hall - probably orginating from the 1890s when the hall was built. Unfortunately, due to excessive breakages of the precious china, the over-officious Village Hall Catering Sub-Committee had insisted that paper tableware be used for the event. This did not sit well with the WI, who to a woman refused to serve their tasty creations and carefully stewed hot drinks on anything less than earthenware, with bone china the preferred option. The Committee were inflexible on this issue, causing a schism in the village, not seen since the days of The Great Drama Society Feud. Thus, the WI resigned as event caterers leaving the organisers in a dreadful panic with only weeks to go before the next event.
The vacancy was filled by Cressida, a wannabe Vintage Wedding and Party Caterer who started her business, having collected together a mass of pretty china for her own wedding and needing an excuse to use it. Cressida had done a Cordon Bleu course after leaving school and had run the Directors' Dining Room at a private bank whilst living in Notting Hill . Her new business, Let Them Eat Cake, was just so exciting - she loved meeting all the brides and visiting all the wedding venues. She was simply dying to get out her lovely baking books and fuscia pink silicon bakeware to create marvellous treats for the vintage fair - it would make a change from all the seafood vol-au-vents and mini-Yorkshire-puddings-with-beef. Cressida was a School Path mummy and coffee-morning friend of the fair organiser, who had little choice but to give her the job.
Cressida had not anticipated the sheer volume of customers that would be lining up for her exquisitely made Pomegranate Drizzle Cake or Roast Vegetable and Quinoa tartlets. Whilst her food looked stunning, service was tortoise-slow, as her only helper, Jacintha, dithered and flustered under the pressue of the ever-mounting queue. Jacintha had only been roped in at the last minute and was rather peturbed at the vast mountain of washing up that was already building on every available clear surface. None of Cressida's other girls were available. Cressida clearly had no intention of doing anything such as washing-up or clearing pots, her role as "chef" precluded such lowly work. Grimly, Jacintha set-to, handwashing all the lovely vintage bone china, with Cressida frequently reminding her to "be careful with that". The working relationship between the two ladies was finally severed when Jacintha managed to break the Royal Doulton milk jug that had been Cressida's grandmonther's wedding gift. And the fair organisers could no longer countenance such massive queues of frustrated and hungry customers blocking the aisles to the vast irritation of the sellers. Cressida stepped-down from her tea room duties, before she was asked to resign and honour was duly saved on all sides.
The next tea shoppe incarnation came in the form of two sweet but rather ineffectual girls from the village. These were not School Path mummies, but younger girls who were keen to earn some extra money. Chloe and Lara had boundless enthusiasm, but with little or no catering experience were as useful as a chocolate teapot. Luckily, the organisers brought in mounds of food and all the girls had to do was serve it up, make the drinks and clear the decks. Unfortunately, neither girl could add up in their heads and without the benefit of an electric till or calculator, their sums were somewhat erratic. The profits were considerably down, as customers were either under-charged or given the wrong change. A lot of giggling and chatting, and fiddling on mobile phones, impaired the speed and efficiency of service. Both girls were more than happy to use paper plates and had no concept of cleaning as they went along. By the end of the fair, the kitchen was knee deep in rubbish. As a social experiment on "how the young would survive if left to their own devices" it was interesting; but a bit of a failure in terms of customer service and profit! Back to the drawing-board.
The poor fair organiser's quest for the impossible was finally resolved, when the services of a very efficient, friendly and competent caterer were secured. The details of how this paragon was located were kept closely guarded, for fear of poaching by other organisers. No more broken crockery, snake-like queues of hungry punters, over-cooked shop bought quiche or insipid tea. Just the hum and buzz of happy people, enjoying delicious homemade cake washed down by a nice cup of tea. Finally, the organisers could relax and enjoy a piece of coffee and walnut sponge - truly, a just dessert.
In the early days of the fair, the local WI ladies had been persuaded to come and run the catering operation. Their cakes enjoyed legendary status in the village. The gremlins in the tea urn were too much in awe of the WI Dragons to play their usual tricks and jinxes. All had run smoothly, with slick sandwich preparation, fabulously flaky pastry for the sausage rolls, and sumptuously iced sponge cakes on display. That is until the issue of crockery had arisen. The WI insisted on using the crested china supplied by the village hall - probably orginating from the 1890s when the hall was built. Unfortunately, due to excessive breakages of the precious china, the over-officious Village Hall Catering Sub-Committee had insisted that paper tableware be used for the event. This did not sit well with the WI, who to a woman refused to serve their tasty creations and carefully stewed hot drinks on anything less than earthenware, with bone china the preferred option. The Committee were inflexible on this issue, causing a schism in the village, not seen since the days of The Great Drama Society Feud. Thus, the WI resigned as event caterers leaving the organisers in a dreadful panic with only weeks to go before the next event.
The vacancy was filled by Cressida, a wannabe Vintage Wedding and Party Caterer who started her business, having collected together a mass of pretty china for her own wedding and needing an excuse to use it. Cressida had done a Cordon Bleu course after leaving school and had run the Directors' Dining Room at a private bank whilst living in Notting Hill . Her new business, Let Them Eat Cake, was just so exciting - she loved meeting all the brides and visiting all the wedding venues. She was simply dying to get out her lovely baking books and fuscia pink silicon bakeware to create marvellous treats for the vintage fair - it would make a change from all the seafood vol-au-vents and mini-Yorkshire-puddings-with-beef. Cressida was a School Path mummy and coffee-morning friend of the fair organiser, who had little choice but to give her the job.
Cressida had not anticipated the sheer volume of customers that would be lining up for her exquisitely made Pomegranate Drizzle Cake or Roast Vegetable and Quinoa tartlets. Whilst her food looked stunning, service was tortoise-slow, as her only helper, Jacintha, dithered and flustered under the pressue of the ever-mounting queue. Jacintha had only been roped in at the last minute and was rather peturbed at the vast mountain of washing up that was already building on every available clear surface. None of Cressida's other girls were available. Cressida clearly had no intention of doing anything such as washing-up or clearing pots, her role as "chef" precluded such lowly work. Grimly, Jacintha set-to, handwashing all the lovely vintage bone china, with Cressida frequently reminding her to "be careful with that". The working relationship between the two ladies was finally severed when Jacintha managed to break the Royal Doulton milk jug that had been Cressida's grandmonther's wedding gift. And the fair organisers could no longer countenance such massive queues of frustrated and hungry customers blocking the aisles to the vast irritation of the sellers. Cressida stepped-down from her tea room duties, before she was asked to resign and honour was duly saved on all sides.
The next tea shoppe incarnation came in the form of two sweet but rather ineffectual girls from the village. These were not School Path mummies, but younger girls who were keen to earn some extra money. Chloe and Lara had boundless enthusiasm, but with little or no catering experience were as useful as a chocolate teapot. Luckily, the organisers brought in mounds of food and all the girls had to do was serve it up, make the drinks and clear the decks. Unfortunately, neither girl could add up in their heads and without the benefit of an electric till or calculator, their sums were somewhat erratic. The profits were considerably down, as customers were either under-charged or given the wrong change. A lot of giggling and chatting, and fiddling on mobile phones, impaired the speed and efficiency of service. Both girls were more than happy to use paper plates and had no concept of cleaning as they went along. By the end of the fair, the kitchen was knee deep in rubbish. As a social experiment on "how the young would survive if left to their own devices" it was interesting; but a bit of a failure in terms of customer service and profit! Back to the drawing-board.
The poor fair organiser's quest for the impossible was finally resolved, when the services of a very efficient, friendly and competent caterer were secured. The details of how this paragon was located were kept closely guarded, for fear of poaching by other organisers. No more broken crockery, snake-like queues of hungry punters, over-cooked shop bought quiche or insipid tea. Just the hum and buzz of happy people, enjoying delicious homemade cake washed down by a nice cup of tea. Finally, the organisers could relax and enjoy a piece of coffee and walnut sponge - truly, a just dessert.
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
The lone wolf - the male stallholder
All the vintage ladies loved Inigo, who was often the sole representative of his gender trading at The Vintage Loveliness market. Whilst Inigo was quite clearly gay, and as camp as a row of tents, his predilection for outrageous statements, caustic asides and flirtatious charm was irresistible to all but the most diehard prude. As thin as a whip, Inigo dressed as a countryman in cords, Viyella checked shirts and a dashing cloth cap. His summer garb consisted of a crumpled linen jacket and trousers - he would never, ever, be seen wearing a T-shirt. His only concession to modernity was his ancient mobile phone - a computer was beyond him.
On arrival to set up, Inigo would be showered with kisses - "both cheeks please" and given a hero's welcome as his adoring public trilled at his every bon mot. Inigo's aesthetic sensibilities were finely honed and he would often suppress a shudder at the sight of poorly laid out stock. He was a self-confessed design snob and with his background in Fine Art, his taste was exquisite if somewhat left field. Not for him the cluttered table, loaded with motley bric-a-brac or splashily painted bits of "upcycled" furniture. Often, his stall would feature just a few beautifully styled objets d'art - quirky, unique and electic were his watchwords. Or, he would delve into his trove of old textiles and pile up museum quality antique French toile de Jouy, English damasks and brocades, butter and coffee-coloured linens, Japanese kimonos and Indian hemp sacks. The buyers would fall upon his stock like hungry dogs and he would often sell out within the first hour, much to the envy of his fellow traders. He was deliberately vague about his sources and no-one had ever seen him at any local auction or boot sale, despite vigorous interrogation by his peers.
Despite his easy charm, Inigo was a man of mystery. No-one quite knew how he survived between each vintage fair - he had no other obvious source of income nor admitted to having any kind of job. It was only known that he lived in a converted coach house, attached to the side of the largest Victorian house in the village with his aged mother, Venetia. Rumour had it that Venetia had been an Actress and a Beauty in her time and Inigo was her only child, the product of a short liaison with a famous director. Unable to escape her talon-like clutches for a more conventional suburban existence, "dear, precious Inigo" was firmly attached to his mother's apron strings. Venetia claimed that he was the only one who understood her artistic sensibilities and ensured that he was never able to leave to create an independent life. This quite suited Inigo, who having tried a career in a leading auction house, had never quite recovered from the experience. And as
his mother had spent her life acquiring beautiful antiques and had a wardrobe packed with designer fashion from the 50s onwards, there was no shortage of stock for his little business.
Having sold out early on, Inigo would spend the rest of the day flitting between the over-loaded stalls, gossiping with his special ladies and then would disappear for a couple of hours to the local pub. He stayed well clear of the posse of husbands staking out the tea room - he was unwilling to be drawn into discussions of cricket scores or politics. Instead, the landlord of the Hedgehog and Shovel would pour him a large G&T and he could catch up on village gossip. And as the pub was a "Venetia Free Zone", he was safe for a few hours from his demanding parent.
On arrival to set up, Inigo would be showered with kisses - "both cheeks please" and given a hero's welcome as his adoring public trilled at his every bon mot. Inigo's aesthetic sensibilities were finely honed and he would often suppress a shudder at the sight of poorly laid out stock. He was a self-confessed design snob and with his background in Fine Art, his taste was exquisite if somewhat left field. Not for him the cluttered table, loaded with motley bric-a-brac or splashily painted bits of "upcycled" furniture. Often, his stall would feature just a few beautifully styled objets d'art - quirky, unique and electic were his watchwords. Or, he would delve into his trove of old textiles and pile up museum quality antique French toile de Jouy, English damasks and brocades, butter and coffee-coloured linens, Japanese kimonos and Indian hemp sacks. The buyers would fall upon his stock like hungry dogs and he would often sell out within the first hour, much to the envy of his fellow traders. He was deliberately vague about his sources and no-one had ever seen him at any local auction or boot sale, despite vigorous interrogation by his peers.
Despite his easy charm, Inigo was a man of mystery. No-one quite knew how he survived between each vintage fair - he had no other obvious source of income nor admitted to having any kind of job. It was only known that he lived in a converted coach house, attached to the side of the largest Victorian house in the village with his aged mother, Venetia. Rumour had it that Venetia had been an Actress and a Beauty in her time and Inigo was her only child, the product of a short liaison with a famous director. Unable to escape her talon-like clutches for a more conventional suburban existence, "dear, precious Inigo" was firmly attached to his mother's apron strings. Venetia claimed that he was the only one who understood her artistic sensibilities and ensured that he was never able to leave to create an independent life. This quite suited Inigo, who having tried a career in a leading auction house, had never quite recovered from the experience. And as
his mother had spent her life acquiring beautiful antiques and had a wardrobe packed with designer fashion from the 50s onwards, there was no shortage of stock for his little business.
Having sold out early on, Inigo would spend the rest of the day flitting between the over-loaded stalls, gossiping with his special ladies and then would disappear for a couple of hours to the local pub. He stayed well clear of the posse of husbands staking out the tea room - he was unwilling to be drawn into discussions of cricket scores or politics. Instead, the landlord of the Hedgehog and Shovel would pour him a large G&T and he could catch up on village gossip. And as the pub was a "Venetia Free Zone", he was safe for a few hours from his demanding parent.
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