Last week, for the first time in many years, I went to an auction-house. It was a breezy, bracing sort of a day as I wandered into the premises, a meagre-looking shop front on the main street of a provincial northern seaside town. There were several people in there, looking for bargains. It was viewing day. The sale itself would be the next day. There were over 400 lots, covering everything from rusted old carpenters’ tools to three-piece suites. The most expensive item, a rather sorry-looking grandfather clock, looked as if it might have fetched eighty pounds. The auction would last 5 hours, with an hour for lunch. That meant, by my calculations, that each lot would go under the hammer in a little over thirty seconds. That didn’t give you much time to pause and think. Woe betide anyone who had a nervous tic – if they didn’t watch their step they’d have a Beautility sideboard knocked down to them for a tenner before they knew what had hit them. I meandered through to the back room, where all the miscellaneous lots were. I found these a splendidly eclectic plethora of dross, with the odd jewel shining through. Lot 60 comprised two boxes of vinyl long-playing records, around 150 in all, ranging from Mario Lanza to the Human League, and I marked those down as worthy of bidding, even though I no longer have a machine capable of playing them. Lot 20 was a box of recent car magazines which included some of the vehicles I would aspire to own, so I noted that too. Lot 77 was a Warrior mountain bike, complete with lock, bell, 18 gears but no front mudguard. It had seen better days, and looked as if it had spent at least part of its life ploughing back and forward through wet cement. It might have been worth a punt if the price was right. Lot 80 was an electric strimmer, missing only a nylon line. I concluded that the chances of matching up the line with one in stock in a hardware store was as likely as finding a Carapeggio at the Pleasure Beach, so I crossed that one off my list. Lot 6 was interesting. I thought at first that it was pile of rubbish that had been put out for the refuse collectors, but on closer inspection, it turned out to be a gold-mine. It contained a 1978 British Rail timetable, a number of brochures extolling the virtues of travelling inter-city by rail, a scrapbook of football photographs from the 1960s, several provincial newspapers from the early seventies and around twenty-five old postcards with pictures ranging from an ancient steam traction engine at a rally at Boscombe Down to a fin de siecle photograph of Broadstairs Esplanade, complete with Victorian women with huge bustles, fussy hats and parasols. To a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles like Autolycus or myself, this was a rare find indeed. I would certainly bid for that lot. I already have a houseful of detritus like that, but, as John Pomfret once remarked: ‘We live and learn, but not the wiser grow.’ On my way out, I saw a chubby woman with carelessly dyed peroxide hair looking in fascination at a furry teddy bear, which squeaked when she waved her hand in front of it, which she did several times. ‘Oh, Eric,’ she said to her husband, who was inspecting a weird writing-bureau that looked more like a china cabinet, ‘We have to have this.’ She turned to the auctioneer’s assistant, a louche young man with enough tattoos to have kept the tattooist busy for a week, and asked: ‘How much d’you think this bear will fetch?’ He replied, after a long pause, ‘About thirty bob.’
After all that, I never did make it to the sale. Something vital came up at the probate office so I was unable to attend. I expect that none of my lots went for over a tenner and, quite possibly, my favourite, Lot 6, did go out with the rubbish, after all. I was pleased, in a way, that I didn’t make it, for I may have been seized with auction fever, and, in the excitement of the moment may have bid for 200 lots, never mind half-a-dozen. Quite what I would have done with Lot 250, a coal-scuttle and pair of tongs, or Lot 363, a box of table lamps in the shape of ships’ wheels, is anyone’s guess.
After all that, I never did make it to the sale. Something vital came up at the probate office so I was unable to attend. I expect that none of my lots went for over a tenner and, quite possibly, my favourite, Lot 6, did go out with the rubbish, after all. I was pleased, in a way, that I didn’t make it, for I may have been seized with auction fever, and, in the excitement of the moment may have bid for 200 lots, never mind half-a-dozen. Quite what I would have done with Lot 250, a coal-scuttle and pair of tongs, or Lot 363, a box of table lamps in the shape of ships’ wheels, is anyone’s guess.
