Amongst the vintage and decorative living fair cognoscenti, chicken keeping was a great passion. Like any epidemic, it started with one carrier and then the virus spread particularly affecting those wearing linen and visiting country vintage fairs. Suddenly, small talk was all about hen houses and where to obtain the best-looking hens and the procurement of various galvanised containers for feed and water.
Much like the hens themselves, there was a pecking order amongst the ladies. The Chief Henkeeper was a countrywoman of standing who bred hens from her picturesque but tumbledown cottage and gardens. Hens roamed freely in her wildflower meadow, housed in a variety of ramshackle timber buildings. Her word was law on the merits of different sorts and sizes of bird, types of hen house, feeding regimes and hen health. As Chief Henkeeper, she supplied her avid disciples with their livestock, having inducted them into the Dark Arts of hen husbandry at one of her jolly Hen Parties aka chicken keeping courses.
At a slightly lower ranking than the CH, Mrs Seasoned Henkeeper was another reliable source of handy hen hints. Not for her the fancy Frizzle or the pretty Pekin; her poultry de jour were rescue hens obtained from the Happy Hen Foundation. The HHF regularly liberated battery hens and then sought loving homes for their scraggy ex-captives. Mrs Seasoned Henkeeper was not deterred by the balding appearance of these unlovely creatures. A few weeks in her tender care and the little darlings would be sporting glossy feathers and beginning to enjoy their freedom. Mrs SH had a massive flock, being a soft touch for a sad story. This was alongside her motley menagerie of rescued dogs, stray cats, a one-legged parrot and two ancient sheep that occupied her very untidy garden. Neighbours had long given up complaining about the farmyard noises and smells, bought off with copious trays of free eggs.
The Young Pretender was desperate to achieve the heady heights of knowledge of the Chief Henkeeper. Not for her the shabby secondhand-on-Freecycle henhouse or the converted garden shed. She had been lured into buying an Heirloom Henhouse, as advertised in "Country Cottage and House" magazine. The pretty Gothic style structure, softly painted in eggshell Barrow and Fall Liberty Bodice pink created a perfect bucolic vision in her well tended gardens.
Mrs YP could not countenance anything less than "divine" or "pretty" in her line of vision and thus, rescued hens were not on her agenda. Poring over "Henkeeping Style - the magazine for the country home henkeeper" she was torn between Bantams,Silkies or even Pekins. The dainty bantam with its tiny eggs would be a fitting occupant of her chicken Doll House. But the Silkies were just so very lovely and as for the Lavender Pekins, she positively drooled over their pin-up portraits in Hen of the Month. Her husband, Jonty, sarcastically referred to these magazines as Chicken Porn. In the end, the Chief Henkeeper had graciously supplied her with 6 bantams and her 7-year apprenticeship had began. The CH's Hen Hotline was constantly engaged with lengthy calls about why one chicken was pecking another, or why no eggs had yet been laid.
Ms Urban Chick had a completely different style. Her longing for an aesthetic yet functionally designed hen house for her pocket-sized town garden had been assuaged by a trendy Egloo. A funky purple dome now stood on her tiny lawn complete with two brown hens. Whilst not the fanciest birds, there was something pleasing about their utilitarian shape and their willingness to produce regular brown eggs. Ms Urban Chick's reading matter "The Urban Hen" mixed helpful advice with fuzzy focus shots of pet hens and the poetic hen-inspired offerings of 9-year old girls.
Aspiring hen keepers could apply to join the ranks of the established Chicken Ladies, but would have to undergo a lengthy initiation first. Attendance at a Hen Party was the entry point; the purchase of a hen house painted a romantic pastel shade and almost the cost of a second home in France was also obligatory; a selection of hens chosen only for their pretty feathers and picturesque appearance was usually a requirement unless a special case could be made for rescue hens. Having passed through this process, piles of unread "Henkeeper's Weekly", regular visits to the country store and an ongoing battles against foxes, rats and red mite would become part and parcel of the newly sworn-in henkeeper's life. But the eggs looked so sweet for sale in their specially-sourced pink egg boxes.
Showing posts with label markets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label markets. Show all posts
Saturday, 22 August 2015
Thursday, 18 June 2015
The friendly doorman - a tribute
Visitors to the popular Brocante-on-the-Green were notorious for their eagerness and even downright craftiness in trying to enter the sacred portals of the village hall before the official opening time. Some would pass themselves off as "helpers" - "oh, I'm just popping in to give Jacinta a hand". Others would wait until the side door was unguarded before slipping in and merging into the rail of pre-loved clothes. This somewhat compromised the efforts of the fair organiser to set a time for the Grand Opening as well as missing out on collecting the modest entry fee. A Solution. Had. To. Be. Found.
Enter Richard, a gentleman perfectly created for the role of Official Doorman. Originally, his function was to chaffeur Jill, his sweet-natured wife, plus a carload of pretty china, softly painted furniture and lovingly embroidered cushions and bags to the fair. The overland trek to reach Sussex from the outpost of Devon in which they resided was somewhat of a legend amongst the vintage family of regular traders. No journey would be complete without at least one visit to a stately home, beautiful garden, delightful country pub or exquisite rural bed and breakfast. A whole book of Places to Visit from Devon to Sussex and Back Again could have been based on their voyages to and from the fair. Always good-humoured, Richard would draw into the car park ready to unload his precious cargo under Jill's firm but fair direction.
At the start, Richard's friendly chit-chat and willingness to hang out with the vintage ladies was perhaps unusual, some would even say a little odd. Most men could not get away fast enough from the piles of pink fabric, chipped and distressed furniture and piles of dusty bric-a-brac. But Richard was made of sterner stuff. Not for him the escape to the pub or hiding behind a newspaper in the tea room. Spotting his potential, the somewhat stressed fair organiser offered him the honorary role of Official Doorman, furnished with the Ceremonial Money Collection Box.
The front desk was set up with military precision - the Ceremonial Money Collection Box given due prominence, nestled amongst pamphlets promoting vintage fairs far and wide. All styled beautifully on a rustic table with a pretty bunch of wildflowers in an old French jam jar. As Doorkeeper, Richard's first duty of the day was to chivvy the ladies to move their cars and vans from the car park. Herding cats would have been easier, but with charm and humour the first objective was achieved. Then, he would take up his station at the front desk, ready to repel invaders until the given signal by the Lady in Charge.
His jolly patter was legend amongst the customers - "lots of lovely things to buy inside" "I don't know where they find it all" and lots of cheery banter with his regular ladies. The half hour wait to enter the hall went in a trice. Money duly handed over and reverently placed in the Collection Box, the vintage-hungry ladies would race into the hall or clothes room.
Rather like a friendly uncle, Richard would take it upon himself to make all newcomers trading at the fair welcome. Nervous first-timers relaxed under the warmth of his sunny charm and old hands enjoyed a joke or quip as they hauled in their treasures.
At the end of the fair, Richard would still be chatting to anyone who would listen, fuelled by cups of tea and the occasional slice of Lemon Drizzle. And once the car was loaded, Richard and Jill would potter over to the pub to join the other traders for a drink and final analysis of the day's activities. Still laughing, Richard would escort his precious lady to the car, to begin the overland expedition back to Devon. And the echo of his laugh would linger in the hall and in the memories of the vintage family.
Enter Richard, a gentleman perfectly created for the role of Official Doorman. Originally, his function was to chaffeur Jill, his sweet-natured wife, plus a carload of pretty china, softly painted furniture and lovingly embroidered cushions and bags to the fair. The overland trek to reach Sussex from the outpost of Devon in which they resided was somewhat of a legend amongst the vintage family of regular traders. No journey would be complete without at least one visit to a stately home, beautiful garden, delightful country pub or exquisite rural bed and breakfast. A whole book of Places to Visit from Devon to Sussex and Back Again could have been based on their voyages to and from the fair. Always good-humoured, Richard would draw into the car park ready to unload his precious cargo under Jill's firm but fair direction.
At the start, Richard's friendly chit-chat and willingness to hang out with the vintage ladies was perhaps unusual, some would even say a little odd. Most men could not get away fast enough from the piles of pink fabric, chipped and distressed furniture and piles of dusty bric-a-brac. But Richard was made of sterner stuff. Not for him the escape to the pub or hiding behind a newspaper in the tea room. Spotting his potential, the somewhat stressed fair organiser offered him the honorary role of Official Doorman, furnished with the Ceremonial Money Collection Box.
The front desk was set up with military precision - the Ceremonial Money Collection Box given due prominence, nestled amongst pamphlets promoting vintage fairs far and wide. All styled beautifully on a rustic table with a pretty bunch of wildflowers in an old French jam jar. As Doorkeeper, Richard's first duty of the day was to chivvy the ladies to move their cars and vans from the car park. Herding cats would have been easier, but with charm and humour the first objective was achieved. Then, he would take up his station at the front desk, ready to repel invaders until the given signal by the Lady in Charge.
His jolly patter was legend amongst the customers - "lots of lovely things to buy inside" "I don't know where they find it all" and lots of cheery banter with his regular ladies. The half hour wait to enter the hall went in a trice. Money duly handed over and reverently placed in the Collection Box, the vintage-hungry ladies would race into the hall or clothes room.
Rather like a friendly uncle, Richard would take it upon himself to make all newcomers trading at the fair welcome. Nervous first-timers relaxed under the warmth of his sunny charm and old hands enjoyed a joke or quip as they hauled in their treasures.
At the end of the fair, Richard would still be chatting to anyone who would listen, fuelled by cups of tea and the occasional slice of Lemon Drizzle. And once the car was loaded, Richard and Jill would potter over to the pub to join the other traders for a drink and final analysis of the day's activities. Still laughing, Richard would escort his precious lady to the car, to begin the overland expedition back to Devon. And the echo of his laugh would linger in the hall and in the memories of the vintage family.
Monday, 27 October 2014
The social media addict
Sara spent most of her days hunched over her computer with her mobile phone readily to hand as back-up. Social media was the lifeblood of her existence. On the occasional day when the internet withdrew its mystical powers, Sara's world would seem dull and empty without her beautiful vintage bubble. Early in the morning or late at night, the computer screen held her ensnared, Siren-like in its strange blue light. Her husband had given up trying to speak to her and would often stomp off to bed with the plaintive comment "are you coming up soon?". Her posts indicated that bed-time was rarely before 2 am.
Sara was an avid vintage-fair-goer and knew all the traders by name - not just their own names, but the whimsical, eccentric or downright peculiar names of their small businesses. Somehow these became co-joined with the name of the owner and their identity merged into one. There was unspoken competition amongst the traders to accrue the most likes on their Facebook pages. Some were subtle about acquiring followers, relying purely on chance and a few randomly distributed business cards. Others set about it with military rigour, scouring the Facebook vintage diaspora to find similar businesses to like, in the hope of reciprocated likes and "loves". Reaching any round number of likes, be it 20, 2,000 or 20,000 would be the spur for a Facebook page "giveaway". Sara was rather keen on those, having amassed quite a few wins by being the umpteenth liker, having shared to all and sundry or by posting a clever comment. She was delighted with her haul of coffee table books, handmade knick knacks and free tickets - she wasn't too sure what to do with the enormous handcrafted dog bed made out of old pallet wood, though.
Opening up her laptop or hearing the ping of an incoming message on her mobile created a frisson of excitement. Whose pictures of the latest vintage find or decorative fair would be posted? The Church of All Things Vintage thrived on social media and Sara was its most fervent disciple. Her Facebook approval was given generously as new pictures, comments and updates jumped out of her screen. Sometimes, the photos were quite indistinct - a blur of pink, somewhat faded material, draped over a bleached wood table or ancient old chair. Such photos were regarded by the disciples as the pinnacle of "loveliness" and ardent comments would be posted, always followed by many xxxxs. For it was never enough to say simply that something was nice, the prescribed words might include "lovely" "stunning" "chippy" (only in the case of a painted item) "beautiful" with the occasional "divine". A simple like was acceptable, but a comment re-inforced that the liker understood the good taste and beautiful styling demonstrated in the picture.
Sara enjoyed vicariously the excitement of visiting boot sales and fairs, as her favourite sellers proclaimed their newest finds and bargains. Some were illustrated with casual shots of items piled high; others preferred a more stylized approach with carefully staged photos of their treasures. Certain Facebook sites could send Sara delirious with longing for plainly painted rustic cupboards, fabulous French chandeliers or painstakingly handcrafted fairies and dolls. In a rush of desire to own beautiful things, she would often impulse buy from such posts filling her home with unwieldy pieces of furniture and sweetly crafted pieces, often left in their boxes and postage envelopes. The thrill of the purchase was often greater than the enjoyment of the received item. A lot of Christmas presents were acquired in this haphazard way.
All this Facebook time could have been spent far more usefully on her own business or even simple chores. But Sara was in thrall and all other concerns fell by the wayside. Her vast circle of Facebook "friends" made her feel part of something lovely and exciting. Once upon a time it had been Ebay that had taken hold, but now social media filled the gap. And with Instagram, Pinterest and Twitter all needing her attention, Sara was unlikely to find space any time soon for mundane necessities of real life.
Sara was an avid vintage-fair-goer and knew all the traders by name - not just their own names, but the whimsical, eccentric or downright peculiar names of their small businesses. Somehow these became co-joined with the name of the owner and their identity merged into one. There was unspoken competition amongst the traders to accrue the most likes on their Facebook pages. Some were subtle about acquiring followers, relying purely on chance and a few randomly distributed business cards. Others set about it with military rigour, scouring the Facebook vintage diaspora to find similar businesses to like, in the hope of reciprocated likes and "loves". Reaching any round number of likes, be it 20, 2,000 or 20,000 would be the spur for a Facebook page "giveaway". Sara was rather keen on those, having amassed quite a few wins by being the umpteenth liker, having shared to all and sundry or by posting a clever comment. She was delighted with her haul of coffee table books, handmade knick knacks and free tickets - she wasn't too sure what to do with the enormous handcrafted dog bed made out of old pallet wood, though.
Opening up her laptop or hearing the ping of an incoming message on her mobile created a frisson of excitement. Whose pictures of the latest vintage find or decorative fair would be posted? The Church of All Things Vintage thrived on social media and Sara was its most fervent disciple. Her Facebook approval was given generously as new pictures, comments and updates jumped out of her screen. Sometimes, the photos were quite indistinct - a blur of pink, somewhat faded material, draped over a bleached wood table or ancient old chair. Such photos were regarded by the disciples as the pinnacle of "loveliness" and ardent comments would be posted, always followed by many xxxxs. For it was never enough to say simply that something was nice, the prescribed words might include "lovely" "stunning" "chippy" (only in the case of a painted item) "beautiful" with the occasional "divine". A simple like was acceptable, but a comment re-inforced that the liker understood the good taste and beautiful styling demonstrated in the picture.
Sara enjoyed vicariously the excitement of visiting boot sales and fairs, as her favourite sellers proclaimed their newest finds and bargains. Some were illustrated with casual shots of items piled high; others preferred a more stylized approach with carefully staged photos of their treasures. Certain Facebook sites could send Sara delirious with longing for plainly painted rustic cupboards, fabulous French chandeliers or painstakingly handcrafted fairies and dolls. In a rush of desire to own beautiful things, she would often impulse buy from such posts filling her home with unwieldy pieces of furniture and sweetly crafted pieces, often left in their boxes and postage envelopes. The thrill of the purchase was often greater than the enjoyment of the received item. A lot of Christmas presents were acquired in this haphazard way.
All this Facebook time could have been spent far more usefully on her own business or even simple chores. But Sara was in thrall and all other concerns fell by the wayside. Her vast circle of Facebook "friends" made her feel part of something lovely and exciting. Once upon a time it had been Ebay that had taken hold, but now social media filled the gap. And with Instagram, Pinterest and Twitter all needing her attention, Sara was unlikely to find space any time soon for mundane necessities of real life.
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