The Private Dining Club

Augustus, known to his parents as Colin, was an aspiring chef dedicated to reviving obscure and somewhat scary recipes sourced from ancient, grease-spattered cookery books. This passion was somewhat at odds with his day-job as a retail assistant in a high street book shop.  When not grappling with heavy boxes or assisting customers who could only recall vague details about the book they simply had to have,  he would be found tucked away in the Food and Drink section.  Not for him the populist writings of Nigella, Gordon and Jamie - his tastes were far more refined and esoteric. But a quick look at some food porn helped him cope with the boredom of recommending the latest Dan Brown novel.

Gus's friends loved his cooking - largely because they were mostly too lazy to cook themselves and good old Gus always over-catered.  The downside of "just passing by and we thought we would drop in" was having to try his various food experiments involving fiery spices, arcane hard-to-source herbs, ragged looking foraged flora and unyielding cuts of meat and clumps of offal.  Augustus (nee Colin) was taking his art to a wider audience through the medium of his Private Dining Club.  Having managed to persuade the local wine shop that it would be a huge benefit to their business to have eight strangers eat dinner in the rather austere surrounds of the "tasting room", his plans were accelerated.  Elaborate menus were planned and rejected; seasonal ingredients to be sourced within 5 miles were bought or foraged from secret copses or tracts of railway embankment.  The hedonistic lure of the Private Dining Club, the first of its kind in Bogborough, worked a charm on those bored with their regular haunt, The Lamb to Slaughter's, pie-based menu.  Extensive use of social media, screeds of florid prose about the menu and the promise of a "gourmet experience" was sufficient to dun eight victims into parting with "£30 per head including a drink on arrival."

Gus had promised a stylishly themed and decorated venue to complement his Blummenthalesque feast.  Thus he needed to call upon the services of Jasper, his friend and general dogsbody, to supply suitable props. Luckily, Jasper dabbled in antiques and dwelt in a converted gardener's bothy crammed with eclectic furnishings.  His haul of copper cookware, enamel pots, crazed Georgian plates, heavy crystal glasses and exquisite French napery was piled into his ancient Land Rover.  Additional props such as leather suitcases, calfskin bound books, sporting paraphenalia, old parlour games, apothecary bottles and taxidermy were added to the mix.  The desired effect was a mash-up of Old Gentlemen's Club and A Night at the Museum.

Come the night and Gus found that he had bitten off rather more than he could chew.  The very small kitchen at the venue was not conducive to producing a meal for 8 guests all at the same time.  The first course, a foraged medley of wild mushrooms served in a puff pasty Pithivier was burnt on top and rather undercooked elsewhere.  The horseradish cream proved bitter - possibly the foraged horseradish was not as fresh as it might have been.  As the food was at least 30 minutes late, the guests had staved off their hunger pangs on the delicious bread obtained at vast expense from the local deli "The Ravenous Radish".  Drink, purchased from the wine shop below, flowed freely and by the time the main course appeared, most of the eight guinea pigs were rather well-oiled.  By now Gus was sweating profusely, his hipster beard glistening with moisture as he battled to bring his meal to "The Pass".  Jasper who had been co-opted to wait tables hovered uselessly as he watched the guests become progressively drunker.

Finally, the main course was ready to serve.  Ambitiously, Gus had decided to serve orange-glazed suckling pig complete with an orange stuffed into its gaping mouth.  Vast pewter platters of wild leaf salad and gargantuan tureens of slow roasted root vegetables fought for space, whilst the perma-tanned porker took up most of the table. Carving was a dangerous experience, as the knive slipped off the glossy crackling, baked to conker-hardness.  Eventually, large slabs of pork were hewn and guests were able to begin the feast.  The saltiness of the crackling exacerbated the need for large gulps of wine - by now, all pretence of "tasting" the wine had vanished.  Bottle after bottle was ordered to sate the thirst of the diners.  Gus and Jasper had also imbibed freely, somewhat undermining their capacity to bring the meal to its expected Grand Finale.

The pudding was an interesting creation, involving wild berries marinated in a homemade rosehip liquer.  This intoxicating mixture was then cooked in a batter like substance, to create a clafoutis.  By now the diners' stomachs had exceeded their natural limit and the prospect of further carb-loading was somewhat of a challenge.  Nonetheless, they manfully forced down Gus's leaden creation, topped up with a glass of Austrian dessert wine and then a bucketful of coffee.

Somewhat exhausted by his Herculean efforts, Gus was confronted by an enormous pile of washing up.  The tiny sink in the kitchen was unequal to the task of cleansing the over-sized tableware and the dishwasher too harsh an environment for the antique plates and silver.  All the dishes were bundled back into the Land Rover to travel to the capacious butler's sink in Jasper's kitchen.  Tempers were frayed as the clearing up and packing dragged into the night.  The guests refused to leave, making their last cups of coffee and dregs of wine spin into the small hours.  Finally, Jasper persuaded them to go and the last items were stowed. 

In the cold light of the next day, Gus added up the costs of the event including buying a very expensive bottle of port as a thank you for Jasper.  And compensating the wine merchant for some missing bottles of wine that had not been accounted for on the night.  With all of that taken into consideration, Gus had made a profit of £12.50.   Guest reviews were lukewarm at best, as the party nursed heavy hangovers and rather queasy stomachs unused to such rich provender.  The dream of a Michelin Star seemed distant.  Good news, though - Gus had applied to be on The Great British Dinner Party Challenge and had just heard that he had got selected.  A perfect way to launch his career as a master chef.

One fat lady

Juliana was on the rotund side and was somewhat the laughing stock of the skinny vintage ladies whom she met at fairs.  She was a latecomer to the vintage scene, but had eagerly tried to conform to its unspoken rules in the hope of blending in as part of the pack. 

Rule One - thou shalt always dress in a linen dress, smock, floral or gauzy garment.
Sadly, Juliana's ample frame was ill-suited to the floating waftiness of the most desirable garments.  She had found a dressmaker who obliged by making her XXXL sized dresses, out of cheap and colourful linen.  Her bulky form strained the seams on these creations, designed for thinner and lither ladies.  Juliana's sack like garments were at least comfortable and hid a multitude of sins.  She was oblivious to the fact that she looked like a galleon in full sail in her linen garb, particularly on a windy day.

Rule Two - in wet weather or muddy conditions, thou shalt wear Hunter wellies. 
As her stocky calves were not accommodated by Hunters, designed for slim, aristrocratic horsey legs,  Juliana was on a mission.  Her quest was to find boots that could slip over her large feet and chunky calves. Hours were spent on the Internet tracking down the elusive wide-fitting boots.  Her delight in completing her vintage uniform, by securing a pair of boots that could be eased on to her stubby legs, was boundless.  And Chunky Monkey, the boot suppliers, were assured of her lifelong custom.

Rule Three - thou shalt have long hair tied up casually in a chic French knot secured by a pencil. 
Juliana's hair was her pride and joy, regularly maintained by Sylvestro, the excitable Italian hairdresser at The HairPlace.  But her beautifully cut and coloured hair was no match for the wispy golden curls or shiny blonde curtains of her fellow traders.  Juliana's attempts at growing her hair were unsuccessful, as her thick tresses became bushier and wilder as they grew. Sylvestro was not about to allow his client to appear like a badly-kept hedge and ruthlessly pruned Juliana's locks into a more practical style, with cries of "bella, bella" as she emerged from his ministrations.  She ws never quite sure how "bella, bella" she really was.

Rule Four - all stock on the stall shalt be pastel or white, linen, distressed, shabby chic, floral, French or combination thereof. 
Juliana aspired to having a stall styled exactly the same as her counterparts.  But she was inexorably drawn to the complete opposite preferring dark wood, obsolete and obscure items of kitchenalia, heavy garden ornaments and funny old toys and books.  Mixed in with this were a few sundry items on the "must have" list, but these sat uneasily amongst the weird and wonderful artefacts on her stall.  Embarrassed by her peculiar stock, some organisers would locate Juliana in an out-lying corridor or in a dark corner to hide her from the customers.

Rule Five - all dogs shalt be worshipped and adored. 
Juliana's household consisted of  five whippets and one husband; and all of the dogs slept on her bed. Charles, her long-suffering husband had moved into the spare room, as he could no longer face the broken sleep created by fidgeting hounds. Dogs were her passion, to the extent that her life was spent raising funds for all kinds of obscure dog-related causes, when she was not out buying her random range of stock.  Occasionally, she would bring a dog or two to the fair with her, to spend the day running in and out of the hall at their whims and fancy.  Her interest in customers was vastly increased if they had a dog in tow; the opposite with small children.

Rule Six - thou shalt only eat one piece of cake at each fair. 
Juliana loved the tea and cake aspect of every fair, and her regular position near the tea room was a happy accident.  Starting the day with a cheese scone, moving on to the homemade quiche, finishing with a massive piece of Coffee and Walnut sponge,  her profits were often frittered on refreshments.  Not only the tea and cake, but any artisan food provider would be sure to enjoy her custom.  Her fridge was full of homemade pates, pies and salads - often not nearly as nice as they looked and usually bought at twice the price of the local deli. 

Juliana frequently hired a man with a van to bring her curious collection of stock to the fair.  Wrestling with large garden urns and solid pieces of furniture was not to be endured.  Luckily, she found a marvellous little man, Tony, who was willing to load his enormous van, drive to the fair and unload the stock all for a reasonable price.  The downside was that Tony was always over-booked, so the loading and unloading was always done at top speed, often with dire consequences for fragile pieces.  Tony, and his lanky sidekick Kev, were oblivious to Juliana's cries and warnings as they clattered boxes and furniture out of the van.  Anything very precious would travel in her car, to be unloaded after the Two Men in a Van had departed.  She was worried about upsetting her hired hands.

Once the stock was disgorged, it would take Juliana at least two hours to arrange it into a pleasing display. The process involved much huffing and puffing, a very red face and frequent stops for water.   She didn't quite have the knack of styling of her vintage sisters and so her displays might hit or miss the mark spectacularly.  Her hastily gathered bunch of wildflowers was her token attempt to prettify the stall, by contrast to the artfully prepared flower arrangements and copious greenery featuring on other stalls.  By some miracle she would be ready as the doors opened, but the colour of boiled beetroot from her efforts.

Once the doors were opened, the ladies that lunch and the yummy mummies would whisk by her stall, eyes drawn to piles of cushions or tiny handmade fairies temptingly displayed elsewhere. Very occasionally, she would make a sale to one of the most selective ladies and this small triumph would be celebrated with the reward of an extra cake.  But by some means or another, Juliana did have her own loyal following and frequently managed to sell a large quantity of her pieces.  Packing up was so much easier with less to take home; Tony would turn up and load the remaining items in a trice.  Meantime, Juliana would be saying her goodbyes hoping that she might be invited to the pub with the other ladies.  As no invitation was forthcoming, her day would end with feet up, enjoying fish and chips in front of Coronation Street - eyeballed by five greedy whippets waiting for their scraps.

The children came too....

Anoushka, or Noushi Noo-Noo as her Mummy and Daddy called her, appeared to be a perfectly cherubic little girl. Her white-gold hair and enormous blue eyes disguised her shrewd and criminal cunning at gaining the upper hand. Noushi's Mummy, Claudia, was so thrilled to have a little angel who could be dolled up in smocked dresses and leggings with Mary-Jane shoes, mostly in pink.  Claudia was a regular customer at at the Vintage Living fair held in Little Bunting and little Noushi was always by her side, causing untold havoc.  But recently, things had rather changed and Noushi's nose was very much out of joint.  A new arrival, a chubby little boy named Alfie, was taking up rather a lot of Mummy's time and attention.  Noushi was not taken in by her parents' assurances that Alfie was going to be her "dear little friend" or that she was going to be "a very special big sister". 

Claudia was so keen to trawl for vintage bargains, that rather unwisely she decided to take Noushi and Alfie along with her to the Vintage Living fair.  Her husband, Seb, was far too busy with his "work" to be looking after his offspring, despite his affectations as a New Man and thus, totally at one with changing nappies, bottle feeding and general toddler wrangling.  Noo-Noo was wrestled into the giant Landrover styled double pushchair - designed to go across Arctic tundra and tropical rainforest - neither of which were very prevalent in Little Bunting.  She demanded the front seat, her body an unyielding plank, until her Mummy caved in to her superior will.  Alfie was transported in a fashionable "BabyHammock" splayed across Claudia's chest like a tiny koala.  Having loaded up with baby changing kit, spare clothes, toys and snacks, Claudia walked from her charming cottage, to Little Bunting village hall, home of the Vintage Living fair.  Other mummies would join her en route, similarly laden like Sherpas on an Everest expedition. 

Upon their arrival at the hall, Claudia exhorted Noushi "not to touch anything, darling" - this fell on deaf ears, as Noushi touched exactly what she wanted with no restraint.  The heavy pram steered perilously through the throng of chattering ladies and narrow walkways lined with wonky furniture, heavy garden ornaments and towers of textiles.  Progress was snail-like, often further complicated by some mummies coming the other way causing a gridlock amongst the stalls.  Meantime, Noushi had a lovely time and played with all the pretty things within reach of her sticky, chubby yet deft fingers. A cornucopia of knick-knacks were picked up and tucked into the pushchair seat or simply dropped on the floor, when Noushi became bored.  Claudia was blind to the chaos under her nose, as she bathed in the adulation paid to her firstborn son. "Oh what a dear little man" and "He's a proper little boy" as the stallholders competed to pay Alfie the most inane compliment of the day.

Baby Alfie, oblivious to his surroundings and admiring public, howled like a coyote having spotted a shiny red toy train amongst the piles of bric-a-brac.  Of course, the toy was totally unsuitable for a babe in arms, coated in a livery of lead paint and designed with ferocious metal corners perfect for serious injury. As he wriggled and yelped, Alfie was carried out by Claudia, leaving the mammoth puschair blocking all pedestrian access.  This abandonment was the cue for Noushi to behave really badly, when she realised that at last she was free of her Mummy's control.  Unbeknownst to Claudia, Noushi released herself from the pushchair harness and began her Reign of Terror.

Noushi and her "best friend at nursery", Tilly,  played a lovely game of Racing around the Hall slipping, sliding and skating on the well-polished floorboards.  The girls' excitement and volume of shrieks spiralled, with the perils of toppling tables, crashing chairs and cascades of stock adding a new element to the game.   Stallholders scowled at the uncontrolled antics of the two little hoodlums, muttering "breakages MUST be paid for" to one another in a glow of self-righteousness.

Eventually, Claudia returned with a pacified Alfie and at last halted the mayhem.  "Darlings, please stop - let's go and have a lovely cake".  Noushi and Tilly were easily bought off as long as their demands for a "big piece of choccy cake" were met.  Alfie avidly sucked down his milk, which he then promptly sicked up all over Claudia's handmade linen frockcoat.  Claudia  recognised defeat and decided to make for home, but not before a further battle was enacted with a defiant Noushi who had set her sights on an old and battered bunny rabbit toy.  "But I really wa-aa-aa-aa-nntt it", Noushi sobbed, gearing up to have an epic tantrum.  Having paid £20 for the tatty object, Claudia finally dragged Noushi away with precious bunny toy in her iron grasp. 

Once they had departed, the hall was at last restored to a picture of calm and decorum.  Only at the end of the day was there further drama, when several stallholders realised that a number of tiny objects were no longer in their keeping.  Back at the cottage, Claudia discovered the extent of Noushi's kleptomania when she found a cache of small items secreted in the pushchair linings.  Claudia's account of her visit to the fair fell on unsympathetic ears as Seb fiddled with his tablet and mobile simultatneously.  His helpful suggestion "Darling, next time get Granny to go with you" was rewarded by the sight of Claudia storming out of the house with the car keys, finally leaving him in sole charge of his by now rather smelly son and heir and a grizzling Noushi.

The stallholder's dog

Hugo, the smooth haired dachsund, went everywhere with Cordelia, sole proprietor of All Things Bright and Beautiful.  He was quite a regular feature at Russsetshire vintage and antique fairs and was always dressed for the occasion.   As a stallholder's dog, Hugo was allowed special treatment  and access all areas,  denied to the common-or-garden labradors, whippets and terriers who visited CountryVintage Living fairs. Hugo suffered from small dog syndrome, believing himself to be at least twice as large and scary than any other dog in town. He was less than keen on sharing the space around his human's stall.  A rumbling growl would emmanate from under the table, should any other canine dare to sniff at his garden urns or galvanised baths, or even put a paw into the 12 Mile Dog Exclusion Zone.

Hugo was also the star of his very own "Dogbook" page, where his latest antics and activities would be lovingly described.  Cordelia adopted a very special style of writing for Hugo's "voice".  Hugo is "very actually quite a busy dog" and delegates the diarising of his busy social whirl to Cordelia, his willing slave.

Cordelia loved to spoil  Hugo, her "precious furbaby" and he possessed a wardrobe that would put Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen to shame.  His winter attire consisted of tailored coats of Harris tweed, naturally, created with as much care as a Savile Row tailor by Dapper Dogs.  Or a Barbour raincoat lined with softest Scottish cashmere, for inclement weather.  Summer outfits were equally flamboyant with a special blazer designed for formal wear and number of doggie T-shirts with witty slogans for dress-down days.  Hugo bore the dressing and undressing with placid good nature, recognising that he received far more treats and attention when dressed up.  His fancy dress wear was a legend - he had Superhero costumes, a Reindeer outfit for Christmas and an Easter Chick bright yellow fluffy fleece.All of which endeared him to ladies and small children and garnered him treats a-plenty.

The stallholders adored Hugo -he was the object of much fawning, petting and baby talk " how is ickle baby Hugo today" they would coo.  However, noone wanted to be on the adjacent stall - customers would be browsing but on catching sight of darling Hugo, would drop any item and move immediately to admire the tiny dog.  Many sales were lost in this way.  Cordelia, however, was quids in - her special range of handmade dog treats beautifully packed into Kilner Jars with bespoke dachshund-shaped labels - went down a storm.  And rather conveniently, Hugo would do well when purchasers proffered him a treat from the just-purchased jar. 

Once the initial bout of Hugo-worship abated, he would curl up on his custom-made dog bed - French ticking upholstery - for a lovely sleep.  He would dream of chasing rabbits and running across enormous fields, naked in his fur leading a pack of slavering hounds.  Naturally, he would catch his prey and be the hero of the hour.

At the end of every market, Hugo would be bundled into the footwell of Cordelia's over-loaded car squashed between plants, a handbag and precariously loaded stock.  He enjoyed sniffing and chewing woodwormy bits of furniture, redolent of old French chiens from centuries past!  Disappointingly, Cordelia did not share his delight in this activity, or indeed allow him free reign amongst her stock.  Sometimes, Hugo reflected, it's a dog's life!

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.

The Queen Bee of Vintage

Clarissa was the self-appointed queen of vintage and her presence at any event was only marginally less of a sensation than a visit by HRH herself. Swathed in soft linens in the most tasteful shades of lavender and grey, she would arrive in a flurry of kisses and exclamations about her simply frightful journey across country from deepest Hampshire.  Her long-suffering husband, Piers, dragged away from his gardening or cricket would drive for miles across country to visit the latest vintage or homes and interiors event.  He was oblivious to the charm of Barrow & Fall painted tables, embroidered linens or French garden furniture.  His only consolation was the promise of a good pub lunch and quiet read of the paper whilst Clarissa struck fear and trembling amongst her followers.

Clarissa’s procession through the array of stalls was akin to the Royal line-up at a charity premiere.  Pausing before each stall, she would wait for the stallholder to make a suitably obsequious greeting before examining the carefully displayed stock.  She was the Simon Cowell of the vintage world – her word could make or break a business.  Her keen eye would unerringly fall upon any handmade item – and however well-made or beautifully designed, she would be sure to find fault.  Her sharp criticism would drop upon the lowered head of her submissive victim, dashing their hopes of approval to the ground.  Occasionally, a gracious word or compliment would be issued with the invitation to apply for a stand at her prestigious Blathington Exquisite Living Fair.  The obeisant stallholders prayed that they would be accorded the privilege of an invitation to stand at Blathington, the stately home of the Portland-Stone family. (Grade I Listed, of course).

In the vintage world, Blathington was regarded as the crème de la crème of all fairs. Ladies that lunch and their younger sisters, the yummy mummies, from all over Hampshire, Sussex, Surrey and beyond would flock to buy over-priced shabby chic furniture and mysterious rustic objects to dress their country houses or seaside villas.  Of course, access to such greatness did not come cheap – on accepting one’s hard-won invitation to exhibit, an invoice for the equivalent of a small country’s Gross Domestic Product would follow.  Wannabe traders would almost bob a curtsey when speaking to Clarissa in the hope that they would receive the magic key to unlock this well-guarded door.  The chosen ones could not help but feel a slight smugness, even tinged with schadenfreude, as their less successful peers agonised at being overlooked or downright ignored.  Clarissa’s co-organiser, Froggy Portland-Stone whose family owned Blathington, was a further barrier to entry.  If Clarissa was head girl, Froggy was the fourth form toady, agreeing with Clarissa's every crushing word.  It was quite a mystery as to why or how anyone was picked, so exacting and convoluted were their standards.

Having laid out a small fortune for the pleasure of exhibiting, stand holders would then be expected to undergo further trials of character and humility.  Set-up day was notorious for its difficulties akin to the labours of Hercules.  The marquees would be laid out in the landscaped gardens – but no vehicle would be allowed to cross the hallowed turf.  Instead, freshly painted cupboards, chests, shelves, trunks, boxes of china and garden statuary would be carried or trollied by sweating porters and grumpy husbands to their final resting point.  Often, patience and nerve would be further tested by downpours of rain and seas of mud, not to mention slippery moss-coated flagstones and uneven grass.  Having negotiated these obstacles, stallholders would then spend many hours dressing the walls of their marquees and setting up displays of their carefully sourced stock.  Clarissa and Froggy would patrol the stands to keep out aesthetic anomalies such as tribal artefacts or warehouse-sourced atrocities. 

 

As day turned to night, the stallholders would become more frenetic in their efforts to create an eye-catching display that would gain the seal of approval from the two hard-to-please organisers.  Stressed and exhausted, the stallholders would spend a sleepless night fretting about their placement of objets and their chances of recouping the queen’s ransom of their stand fee

On the day, Blathington would be swamped by 4x4s carrying maquillaged ladies suitably attired in linen smocks and floral dresses with the obligatory Hunter wellies.  Well-bred ladies would turn into avid hunters, keen to find the latest fashionably distressed table or vintage Sanderson-clad armchair.  Clarissa and Froggy would hold court from their own lavishly adorned stands, enjoying their moment of glory.

By the end of the day, stallholders would be on their knees with exhaustion, vowing never to put themselves through such pain again.  The final straw would be breaking down their stands and carrying stock across the well-trodden and now very muddy paths.  Frayed tempers, tussles over well located parking spaces and general tiredness would add to the explosive atmosphere.   Finally, the gardens and drives of Blathington would be returned to their normally somnolent state.  Meanwhile, Clarissa and Froggy would be counting up their enormous takings whilst swigging well chilled vintage champagne.  After all, what else would the queen of vintage and her lady-in-waiting deserve after all their hard work.

The frantic fair organiser...

Charlotte's passion for all things vintage and her countless forays to vintage fairs across England, were the catalyst for her ambitions to hold her very own vintage fair.  She just loved organising things - her wedding had been a masterpiece of vintage styling from the sweetly mismatched tea-cups to the original 1920s cricket pavilion where the reception took place - and was determined to style her event with similar panache.  Plus, she reckoned that the money she made would subsidise her addiction to purposeless but pretty bric-a-brac and crumbling old furniture.  With all the enthusiasm of a young Labrador, Charlotte rushed ahead with her plans for the very first Stately Home Vintage to be held in Russetshire.

Her vision of a pastoral setting, with a fluttering vintage marquee housing oodles of pretty stalls, dozens of genial customers, a pack of  friendly stallholders and enthusiastic locals was perhaps a touch optimistic.  Charlotte however, was not a girl to be daunted by any sensible advice given by well-meaning friends.

Her greatest friend, Amanda, another vintage fanatic was roped in to provide help, support and lots of cups of coffee during the planning process.  Post school-run, both ladies would convene at Charlotte's kitchen table for yet another planning meeting.  This was perhaps a generous description of what usually turned into a marathon bitchfest about the other school mummies fuelled by Tassino coffees a-plenty.  However, progress was made and the grounds of Dandridge Towers in the ancient village of Lower Bogsborough secured as the venue for the first Stately Home Vintage fair.

Dandridge Towers was a monument to the Victorian Gothic, with its lavishly turreted facade, lancet windows and excessive crenallations.  The fair was to be located in the vast gardens which had almost been lost due to post-war neglect and decay, becoming overgrown to the point of wildnerness.  Lord Jasper Dandridge's millions, the result of a stratospheric career in the City and clever investment into hedge funds, had been poured into their restoration.  The Guinea Pig Lawn was to be the site of the main event, with the "pop-up tea shoppe" sited in the old Gardener's Bothy and parking on the old tennis courts and pony paddocks.  Visitors to the fair would also be able to visit the famous Blue Garden (Gertrude Jekyll) and the recently refurbished Sunken Garden, complete with its Italianate Singing Fountains.  This was to be the vintage event of the summer.

Lady Dandridge, who had been Lord D's PA, was quite thrilled to have a vintage fair in her very own grounds.  She had never quite fitted into the County Set with their obsession with shooting, dogs and horses.  She had already began to "shabby chic" some of the rooms in Dandridge Towers, much to the disgust of her very traditional mother-in-law.  It was expected that her address book would be plundered for potential customers.

Charlotte was keen to invite only the creme de la creme of the vintage circuit traders and immediately set to work issuing invitations to those that had made the grade.  Unfortunately, this led to some ill-feeling amongst the local vintage dealers who were not invited.  Certain smart vintage businesses were "must-haves" if the fair was to have any credibility - this elite group would be given premier stalls at the front of the vast marquee.  After much haggling and negotiations on a par with the Middle East Peace Talks, a final list of 30 favoured stalls and traders was in place.  Meantime, Charlotte and any friend she could rope in, were littering the countryside with fliers and posters for the event. No corner store, bus shelter or antique centre was left untouched.  Endless Facebook posting and Tweets reminded everyone in Charlotte's social circle of the event.

Come the day, Charlotte's nerves were in shreds.  A key stallholder had cancelled at the last minute, leaving a prime space empty involving a major re-think on the site plan.  The parish council in Lower Bogsborough had taken offence at the multitude of signs posted all over verges and fences and an over-zealous councillor had removed them to a location unknown.  The operators of the "pop up" tea room were not answering any phone calls or emails, due to their involvement in a major society wedding the week before.  Her phone was red hot with endless calls from anxious stallholders "now you will put me next to Hetty, won't you" and visitors "are there any coaches laid on from the railway station".  Charlotte was ready to explode but luckily, Amanda her stalwart lieutenant was able to shield her from some of the more irritating individuals.

Despite issuing strict instructions on set-up times - "no-one before eight am please" - many stallholders were sitting in the car park before Charlotte was ready.  A manic two hours was to follow, with worker ants carrying their loads to the marquee and other worker ants unpacking as fast as they could.  Gradually, calm was restored and amazingly, elegant and tempting displays emerged from the clouds of tissue paper and bubble wrap.

Charlotte was thrilled when a queue started to build at the entrance point, champing at the bit to race one another to the bargains and hidden gems they felt sure were to be found.  No-one baulked at the £5 entry fee, to include a voucher for a tour of the gardens and a complimentary cup of tea. Once started, the buzz of excitement was evident with stallholders doing brisk business with their customers.  The slightly boggy ground and the freezing gusts of wind were soon forgotten as traders subtly counted their takings.

There were a few hiccups, of course.  The Portaloos were blocked and a massive queue formed for the only working loo available.  The tea rooms ran out of scones and sausage rolls, to the disappointment of many husbands looking forward to their special treat.  Charlotte was on her knees with exhaustion, her face stiff with a rictus smile adopted for the day.  As numbers dwindled, traders were stealthily packing away their wares, despite the anxious entreaties to remain in place until the closing time of 5 pm.

Once closed to the public, the scene was one of chaos and confusion as all 30 traders attempted to bring their vans and cars as close to the marquee as possible.  Grumpy husbands, roped in to help, were found staggering under the weight of furniture or piles of packing crates.  Stock was jammed into car boots willy nilly in the great rush to depart.  Finally, all were gone leaving only some shreds of of paper and bubble wrap wafting around in the breeze.  Charlotte and Amanda were last seen sitting in Lady Ds kitchen, knocking back large glasses of Sauvignon and already planning their next event.  After all, it had been "such fun".

The reluctant husband

Julian’s idea of hell was to be dragged out to some remote countryside venue, for a “vintage” or “decorative living” fair.  But the thought of letting Camilla, his vintage-addicted wife, loose amongst all the stalls was a thought too frightening to contemplate.  Her enthusiasm for linen cushions, wobbly chairs, patchwork quilts and endless amounts of pretty china was boundless, unlike her bank balance.  Julian’s Modus Operandi was to control the otherwise unchecked spending by casting a gloomy spell over any of Camilla’s proposed purchases.

Thus it would be common to find Julian firing up the old Range Rover to transport Camilla to her latest vintage outpost.  Inevitably, the satnav would fail to bring them to the appointed spot, often leading them on a wild goose chase to some dead-end or impassable off-road track. Camilla’s skills as a navigator were found wanting and only by dint of pestering hapless locals on pushbikes were they able to find their way to Little Bathouse on the Avon or other such hidden gems.  Parking the monster 4X4 on a single track lane was always a challenge, leading to much bad language from Julian and much fluttering from Camilla.

Camilla would almost break into a run in her excitement of seeing the glint of galvanised metal in the watery sunshine.  Some carefully chosen vintage wares would be artfully laid outside the venue de jour, to lure in the customers.  Julian would lag behind, hoping that at least the café would live up to its promise of “delicious home-made cake” – the highlight of his day.

Camilla would then begin her orgy of indecision and impulse buying.  Weaving from stall to stall, drawn by the sight of anything pink or a faded textile, she would pass amongst the heavily laden tables.  Her gushing over the glories on offer “such a dear little jug” or “I simply adore that cushion” would trigger Julian’s crushing remarks “What do you want that old thing for?” or “Haven’t we already got enough cushions”.  He was blissfully unaware of the scowls and glares of the stallholders as he passed by on his path of righteousness.  Camilla, however, was undeterred by such negativity, choosing to ignore it entirely.

On the odd occasion, Julian would spot something that he actually quite liked.  Usually, something in leather or wood, or an old print tucked way, almost apologetically masculine in a sea of femininity.  He would seize the item, like a drowning man grasps a lifebuoy, and engage the stallholder in conversation about its provenance.  All the better if the item was in any way connected with fishing, cricket or the war.  Of course, Julian would think nothing of spending a large sum on an item for his own collection.  But Camilla was on his case and would frequently bear down just as the purchase was about to be made.  “Darling, where will you put that old thing – your study is quite full and I really can’t have it in the house”.  Sheepishly, Julian would put the item back with a rueful smile at the stallholder, now frustrated at losing a sale of the old bit of tat she had been dragging around for months.  Once in a while, however, Julian would sneak a purchase before Camilla spotted him in the act and he would enjoy a quiet moment of triumph at his own skulduggery and stealth.

Bored by the endless chatter at each stall, and the excessive “oohs” and “aahs” of delight over a piece of “old rag” (his words), Julian would take refuge in the “country café”.  Joining the queue, he would wait to buy over-priced coffee and cake served by two dithering and largely inefficient girls, Alice and Sophie.  

Julian would find a quiet table, usually amongst other similarly disenchanted husbands, and would enjoy his first moment of peace for the day.  Perhaps a word or two would be exchanged with the other men about the cricket, the road conditions or some other matter of world importance.  But no talk of cushions, fabrics, china, interior design or gardens would be contemplated or indulged in.

Finally, Camilla would appear and the peace would be shattered.  Julian would be directed to various spots to collect the vast array of  purchases.  Often, the item would be a large piece of old furniture, inevitably in scruffy old paint with woodworm holes, to be levered into the car boot somehow.  Equally awkwardly shaped items such as tin baths, large and fragile plants and cast iron garden implements would need to be accommodated.  Finally, the European Cushion Mountain would be squeezed in around the other objects leaving room for nothing else.  A contented Camilla would then fall asleep on the long journey home, leaving Julian to battle with the tempramental satnav alone.

Back at home, Camilla would spend happy hours on the phone to her girlfriends chattering about her latest finds.  Julian, meanwhile, would have his reward listening to Test Match Special whilst mowing the acres of lawn on his new ride-on motor mower.  After all, a chap has to have some fun!