Frivolous Friday: An English Obsession . . . Antique Roadshows

One of the most fascinating things about moving to a new country is learning the foibles and idiosyncrasies of one's hosts. And trust me, the English have plenty of those. But one of the quaintest I've discovered is the obsession with antique fairs, roadshows and TV programmes about antique roadshows and fairs. 

Now, in all truth, I never watch TV – it cuts into valuable reading/blogging/writing time – but I admit to being a little captivated by the box when we first arrived in the UK. (In my defence, it was winter . . .) 

So imagine my surprise when I discovered that just about every channel had at least one antique-hunting-buying-selling programme. I was enthralled for a time. 

The kids rolled their eyes every time they walked into the lounge to see me – the mother they thought they knew – watching yet another couple of bargain hunters scratching through piles of junk at an antique flea market.

Then our very own antique flea market came to town and Andrew and I couldn't resist a visit. 

Elbowing pasts at least two camera crews filming eagle-eyed bargain hunters sporting t-shirts displaying the TV programme they represented, we carved a path through miles and miles and miles (did I mention it was miles?) of bric-a-brac. 

After the first hall I was satiated. I've never seen so many tin boxes, kitsch porcelains, glitzy costume jewelry and child-worn toys under one roof. And this was just the start.

Andrew had to keep reorientating me as we left one hall and stumbled to the next. I was like one of those whales who loses its sonar and ends up beached in the shallows. I kept wanting to go back the way I came . . . I swear, every thing just looked the same and my senses were jangling.

The visit did serve one useful purpose, though . . . it cured my obsession for antique auctioneering programmes on TV. With nothing left to watch, I now do what I was designed to do – read. So much more satisfying.

Who would actually pay good money for this stuff?

Coffin brasses?
Yup. The seller assure me they'd never actually been used . . . 

Who still collects printer's trays?
Or thimbles?

The final word in kitch?

Happy weekend all from a gloriously sunny Lincolnshire. Long may the sunshine last!

Cheers
Gwynn

P.S. Comments always appreciated. 
P.P.S They stop me feeling as if I'm writing into the great void. . . 

Frivolous Friday: When The Fun Fair Comes To Town

When I was a kid I loved Enid Blyton's books, especially her adventure stories with the Famous Five and, maybe less so, the Secret Seven. Apart from thrilling me with exciting tales in which children did extraordinary things (that, in a day when kids were seen and not heard and adults controlled everything), she also introduced me to the wonder of the English countryside.

I was enthralled by her descriptions of secret islands, haunted castles, forbidding forests, and green meadows where sheep grazed and noisy dogs chased rabbits. But her most enduring legacy were the tinkers and gypsies. I still sometimes (often) dream of packing it all in and taking off in my horse-drawn caravan, complete with pots and pans dangling from the back bumper. Only today my caravan would be Andrew and my handcrafted, custom-built four wheel drive camper designed to go anywhere as long as the countryside is stunning and far away from people . . .

Reality check!

Part of the appeal of Enid Blyton's gypsies and tinkers was the fun fair that always accompanied them where young adventurers could get themselves into no end of trouble from shifty-eyed tambola operators.

The old and the new.
That church is about nine-hundred-years-old. I bet it could tell a tale or two  . . .

Travelling fun fairs were pretty much alien concepts where I grew up, so the idea of a hundred colourful caravans pulling into town loaded with thrill rides was utterly enchanting. I would dream of eating toffee apples (yuk) and candy floss (not much better) while winning that blue-eyed doll at the archery stand. Dreams are great . . .

So imagine my delight this week when the fun fair arrived unexpectedly in my town. (Okay, everyone else knew about it, but see my point above about getting away from people. My hermit tendencies often mean I miss out on the cool stuff.)

Back to my story.

Unfortunately, my discovery of the fun fair came when I was looking for parking. So, instead of being enchanted, I was just plain irritated. It seems that fifteen minutes spent inching along narrow streets - care of our medieval town planners - cluttered with colourful caravans and enormous thrill rides does that to me. What a let down.

Having teenage girls helps though, and E & K, my pair, where not missing out on a chance to have their teeth rattled from their heads while being shot a hundred feet into the sky by a giant hydraulic catapult, so we grabbed a group of friends and hit the fair.

Even though the weather was misty and cold (it is spring in England, after all) I'm happy to announce that my heart was warmed by the experience.

Enchanted, in fact. But to honest, I have to admit that was mainly the result of all the twinkly lights - another obsession of mine - sparking on every ride, luring us suckers in. Unable to resist the gaudy horses, I fell for a carousel. It was fantastic! I felt like a child again.

So, how do take a good pic of a carousel?
Because this certainly isn't one.

Did I see any shifty-eyed tombola operators? Nah. They must have all been off at some forbidden castle chasing banshees . . .

Enjoy the pics . . . and have a wondrous weekend filled with fun.

I couldn't resist this.
Every time I see a giant tea cup I am reminded of Lilith from Cheers telling Fraser to go an find his manhood on the giant tea cups . . .

Cheers
Gwynn