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.
Showing posts with label vintage markets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vintage markets. Show all posts
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
Thursday, 31 July 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, 2 July 2014
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!
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!
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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