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 perpetual browsers

Mr and Mrs Jolly loved a nice drive out to a country fair, particularly if it could be combined with a slap-up afternoon tea to keep Mr J "onside".  They lived in an enormous "executive home" in suburbia, built in the 80s and characterised by its characterlessness.  Mrs J was keen to make a move to their final "forever home" ie a romantic country cottage.  "Rural Escape" was her very favourite TV programme and thoughts of "a-cosy-snug-with-an-open-fire" "a kitchen-diner with an island" "space for chickens" and "a beautiful view" were never too far from her mind.  Plus, she had a bit of a crush on the dapper presenter, Alistair Hudson.  Their trips to VintageDecor, and other such events, were research trips for when they finally acquired their country idyll.  Mrs J was in love with the whole shabby chic concept, providing it wasn't too dusty or grimy or rustic.  Mr J was more into minimalism, with no enthusiasm for knick-knacks, tchotchkes, floral curtains or chintzy cushions.  But as Mrs J ruled the interior roost with a rod of iron, his wishes were largely unheeded in matters of decor and furnishings.

Their trips to local vintage fairs and markets were numerous, but until they found "the house of our dreams" a strict embargo was maintained on purchases.  This did not dent Mrs J's enthusiasm and passion or diminish her downright gushing over each and every item on display.  It would take hours for her to examine the array of hand-embroidered linen cushions, decorative hand-painted china, not-too shabbily painted chests and cupboards not to mention all the pretty planted-out tin baths, dented watering cans and lumps of garden statues.  Stallholders would get excited, sensing big sales as she oohed and aahed over their temptingly displayed wares.  "Darling, just look at this pretty little table/cushion/lavender bag" she would coo to the long-suffering Mr J.  Enquiries would be made about provenance, price, the possibility of delivery of many an object - her interest could not be beaten by any genuine customer. Drawers would be opened and closed, cupboards minutely examined for woodworm, tables wobbled, chairs sat on, cushions plumped - a veritable vintage assault course. The stallholder by now could almost taste a massive sale, mentally working out the space available in their car to take home an impulse purchase of an armchair made earlier in the day.

Alas, it was not to be.  Having built the stallholder to a crescendo of expectation, Mrs J would dash hopes with her much-used excuse, "Oh, but we are downsizing - and I must be really, really good and not buy anything else!".  Sometimes,  a much vaguer promise would be made, "I'm just going to look round, but I will come back - I so love the xxxxxx (insert name of item as necessary).  Mr J would heave an inward sigh of relief but had the sense not to make any comment.  Had he raised an objection to the item, Mrs J would have to purchase it on point of principle!  The savvy stallholder would realise that the sale had slipped from their lifeless grasp and would refuse to engage in any further chit-chat about "your lovely stock" or possible discounts.  The newbie trader, however, would believe the promise of a return and the mouth-watering prospect of a large sale, at least until they saw the Jollys make their exit clutching nothing more than two garishly iced cupcakes from the Cake Lady.

No-one could quite remember when the Jollys had ever made a purchase other than refreshments, cakes and the occasional birthday card.  Mr J intended to keep it that way - he was very good at finding objections to every property sourced by his wife on the numerous property websites she browsed.  "Not that one, darling, we can't possibly take on a thatched cottage".  Estate agents' details clogged up their mail box, and were filed as "maybes" "yeses" or "never in a million years".  Quiet, unassuming Mr J waged his secret war and when his wife was out playing golf, somehow or another the property porn got filed to the WPB (waste paper bin AKA recycling).  And the details of a nice, easy-to-maintain bungalow would miraculously rise to the top of the pile. No shabby chic or "space for chickens" for him.

The seasoned dealers..

Jane and Trevor were old-school antiques dealers, in the trade for 30 years.  They were now enjoying a renaissance in fortunes at the plethora of vintage and decorative fairs in their home county.  Having lived through many fads and fashions their radar was tuned to anything that could be bought and sold at a profit.  Jane was the brains, Trevor the brawn of the outfit, and their trusty white van, Boudicca, could be seen trundling the roads from boot sale to auction on a regular basis.  They rather turned their noses up at the new traders to the market - the eager young blondes, hunting in pairs for prettily distressed furniture and French enamelware and the wealthy ladies having a dabble.  They'd seen it all before and enjoyed a good old rant with other old hands about how prices were being pushed up, nothing good to buy any more...blah, blah blah....Moaning actually made them really happy.

Their house would have made an interesting anthropological study of the hoarding habits of the Great British Public, with its many strata of long-neglected collections, dog-eared Millers's price guides, yellowing old copies of Antiques Trade Gazette and Collect Stuff magazine.  Boxes of stock were piled precariously in hallways and the kitchen, with only a narrow path available to the kettle, sink and microwave.  Partially completed restoration projects cluttered the living room - stripped down chairs, bare of upholstery; broken ceramics waiting to be pieced together and half polished or painted furniture.  Verdigrised copper kettles and tarnished brass knick-knacks decorated their massive inglenook fireplace.  Ropes of cobwebs hung from every corner, safe from the attentions of Jane's rather intermittent housework programme.

Having cottoned on that "vintage" "shabby chic" and French style were de rigeur amongst the smart ladies who visited fairs, J&T ruthlessly hunted down stock across the county and beyond.  Jane had an amazing knack of being first at the back of any promising vehicle at a boot sale, using her sharp elbows to ward off competition from the less gung-ho buyers.  Trevor's bulk came in useful to block access, whilst she cross-examined the sellers about their goods "Got any French stuff...got any textiles...got any old bits".....Sellers, too traumatised by the pack of dealers slavering at their boots to unpack, were only too pleased to sell all their best stuff to her.  When not at boot sales, the couple would frequent local auctions, bidding up unsuspected newcomers and securing boxes of mis-matched china in the quest for one or two decent items.  Occasionally, they would be able to buy privately from an estate sale - but they kept this hush-hush from all their dealer friends.  It helped that Trevor played golf with a solicitor and estate agent on a regular basis.

Their latest source of goods involved long trips to France, covering innumerable kilometres in Boudicca to out-of-the way markets and brocantes.  Without knowing a word of French, Jane would negotiate with gusto - the natives stood no chance against her.  Trevor would haul back the day's treasures - enormous armoires, bottle driers, shutters, enamel, clocks and heaps of dusty linen.  Both would then sit down and enjoy a slap-up French meal before their long journey home.  Trevor did all the driving and held the strong belief that women drivers were the scourge of the road.  Jane was quite content navigating and back-seat driving.

Their stand at any fairs was always somewhat unusual - whilst the shabby chic and French items were prominent, odd items from back-dated stock would also appear.  These old friends were hauled from fair to fair, with the vain hope that someone might finally buy them.  If a hard won sale was made, Jane would be hard-pushed to hide her glee.  The other, younger and less-experienced traders, were quite in awe of the couple, although they never invited them to the pub aftewards for a post-show drink. 

Jane and Trevor would often speculate on "how long can this vintage thing last" and would be beadily looking around at other dealers' stands to spot the next Big Thing.  Jane just wished that brown furniture and brass would come back so they could clear their garage of ancient stock and actually put the lawnmower away. Trevor just wanted a quiet life and more time for golf.