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.
Showing posts with label style. Show all posts
Showing posts with label style. Show all posts
Monday, 21 July 2014
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
The lone wolf - the male stallholder
All the vintage ladies loved Inigo, who was often the sole representative of his gender trading at The Vintage Loveliness market. Whilst Inigo was quite clearly gay, and as camp as a row of tents, his predilection for outrageous statements, caustic asides and flirtatious charm was irresistible to all but the most diehard prude. As thin as a whip, Inigo dressed as a countryman in cords, Viyella checked shirts and a dashing cloth cap. His summer garb consisted of a crumpled linen jacket and trousers - he would never, ever, be seen wearing a T-shirt. His only concession to modernity was his ancient mobile phone - a computer was beyond him.
On arrival to set up, Inigo would be showered with kisses - "both cheeks please" and given a hero's welcome as his adoring public trilled at his every bon mot. Inigo's aesthetic sensibilities were finely honed and he would often suppress a shudder at the sight of poorly laid out stock. He was a self-confessed design snob and with his background in Fine Art, his taste was exquisite if somewhat left field. Not for him the cluttered table, loaded with motley bric-a-brac or splashily painted bits of "upcycled" furniture. Often, his stall would feature just a few beautifully styled objets d'art - quirky, unique and electic were his watchwords. Or, he would delve into his trove of old textiles and pile up museum quality antique French toile de Jouy, English damasks and brocades, butter and coffee-coloured linens, Japanese kimonos and Indian hemp sacks. The buyers would fall upon his stock like hungry dogs and he would often sell out within the first hour, much to the envy of his fellow traders. He was deliberately vague about his sources and no-one had ever seen him at any local auction or boot sale, despite vigorous interrogation by his peers.
Despite his easy charm, Inigo was a man of mystery. No-one quite knew how he survived between each vintage fair - he had no other obvious source of income nor admitted to having any kind of job. It was only known that he lived in a converted coach house, attached to the side of the largest Victorian house in the village with his aged mother, Venetia. Rumour had it that Venetia had been an Actress and a Beauty in her time and Inigo was her only child, the product of a short liaison with a famous director. Unable to escape her talon-like clutches for a more conventional suburban existence, "dear, precious Inigo" was firmly attached to his mother's apron strings. Venetia claimed that he was the only one who understood her artistic sensibilities and ensured that he was never able to leave to create an independent life. This quite suited Inigo, who having tried a career in a leading auction house, had never quite recovered from the experience. And as
his mother had spent her life acquiring beautiful antiques and had a wardrobe packed with designer fashion from the 50s onwards, there was no shortage of stock for his little business.
Having sold out early on, Inigo would spend the rest of the day flitting between the over-loaded stalls, gossiping with his special ladies and then would disappear for a couple of hours to the local pub. He stayed well clear of the posse of husbands staking out the tea room - he was unwilling to be drawn into discussions of cricket scores or politics. Instead, the landlord of the Hedgehog and Shovel would pour him a large G&T and he could catch up on village gossip. And as the pub was a "Venetia Free Zone", he was safe for a few hours from his demanding parent.
On arrival to set up, Inigo would be showered with kisses - "both cheeks please" and given a hero's welcome as his adoring public trilled at his every bon mot. Inigo's aesthetic sensibilities were finely honed and he would often suppress a shudder at the sight of poorly laid out stock. He was a self-confessed design snob and with his background in Fine Art, his taste was exquisite if somewhat left field. Not for him the cluttered table, loaded with motley bric-a-brac or splashily painted bits of "upcycled" furniture. Often, his stall would feature just a few beautifully styled objets d'art - quirky, unique and electic were his watchwords. Or, he would delve into his trove of old textiles and pile up museum quality antique French toile de Jouy, English damasks and brocades, butter and coffee-coloured linens, Japanese kimonos and Indian hemp sacks. The buyers would fall upon his stock like hungry dogs and he would often sell out within the first hour, much to the envy of his fellow traders. He was deliberately vague about his sources and no-one had ever seen him at any local auction or boot sale, despite vigorous interrogation by his peers.
Despite his easy charm, Inigo was a man of mystery. No-one quite knew how he survived between each vintage fair - he had no other obvious source of income nor admitted to having any kind of job. It was only known that he lived in a converted coach house, attached to the side of the largest Victorian house in the village with his aged mother, Venetia. Rumour had it that Venetia had been an Actress and a Beauty in her time and Inigo was her only child, the product of a short liaison with a famous director. Unable to escape her talon-like clutches for a more conventional suburban existence, "dear, precious Inigo" was firmly attached to his mother's apron strings. Venetia claimed that he was the only one who understood her artistic sensibilities and ensured that he was never able to leave to create an independent life. This quite suited Inigo, who having tried a career in a leading auction house, had never quite recovered from the experience. And as
his mother had spent her life acquiring beautiful antiques and had a wardrobe packed with designer fashion from the 50s onwards, there was no shortage of stock for his little business.
Having sold out early on, Inigo would spend the rest of the day flitting between the over-loaded stalls, gossiping with his special ladies and then would disappear for a couple of hours to the local pub. He stayed well clear of the posse of husbands staking out the tea room - he was unwilling to be drawn into discussions of cricket scores or politics. Instead, the landlord of the Hedgehog and Shovel would pour him a large G&T and he could catch up on village gossip. And as the pub was a "Venetia Free Zone", he was safe for a few hours from his demanding parent.
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