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.

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.

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 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 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 "new girls on the block" or the vintage shopkeepers

Annabelle and Emily just love, love, love vintage.  Their lives are dedicated to “sourcing” items for their artfully “curated” shabby chic homes.  Both are mummies, with adorable little girls who are dressed in beautifully ironed Victorian christening gowns worn over stripy leggings.  Luckily, their husbands are quite content to let their wives dash around the countryside spending piles of cash on distressed lumpy armchairs, scruffily painted dressers and reams of grubby textiles.  The girls enjoy nothing more than visiting an early morning boot sale together, prising bargains from the bowels of old Volvo estates and ancient white vans.  They are blissfully unaware that the canny old dealers double their prices when they approach, cooing over chipped enamel.

Their dearest ambition is to have their homes featured in Vintique Interiors & Gardens STYLE ! – the almanac of all that is best in vintage design.  Having filled their homes with exquisite finds (which their husbands refer to as “old junk”), they have turned their attention to helping their friends create the same look.  Their interior design business and shop is “such an exciting project”, which they can fit around the children.  The clever things have found a tiny shop in the ancient village of Billingswood Green. Once an old  pig sty, the newly converted shop is now dressed in Annie Sloan chalk paints, yards of bunting and fairy lights and is “so, so pretty”.

They can’t wait to open their doors for business, having bombarded all their friends on Facebook about their plans.  Their husbands, Ollie and Guy, refer to the business as OldPigVintage, a reference to Emily’s childhood nickname, Piggy.  The joke has worn thin as the girls struggle to find a name that represents their recherché  mix of vintage finds and French style, and they can’t agree on “Kitten and Dove Vintage” or “Faded Romance”.

At last, the opening day arrives and the shop will finally open.  Annabelle and Emily, clad from head to toe in Cauliflower & Posies linen accessorised with expensive jewellery, shriek with joy at the sight of a queue of eager customers.  As their mummy friends crowd the shop, the snarl of off-road baby buggies make it impossible for anyone to get in or out of the door. 

Champagne is served from vintage tea cups, as shoppers struggle to eat their over-iced and lavishly sprinkled cup cakes.  Tiny children are crushed as their mothers vie to grab the last scented-candle-in-a-teacup – “what a clever idea!”.  The shop showpiece, a cavernous French Armoire painted in Barrow & Fall’s Hare’s Scut eggshell paint, is much admired.  Envious glances are cast when Caroline, the richest mummy, buys it for her spare bedroom.  Along with a galvanised bucket, a set of rickety ladders, three strings of bunting, a child’s creaky rocking chair and a tiny handmade felt rabbit.   

After a busy month’s trading, the girls work out they have made a princely sum of £25 profit after rent, rates, utilities, insurance and stock is accounted for.  Undeterred, they head for yet another boot sale, ignoring the demands of their husbands to keep proper accounts......”so, so boring”.

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!